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<s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

Jon Karyl is bolting a new baffle plate on the stationary rocket engine and ignores what happens around other parts of the little asteroid. A peculiar spaceship lands a few hundred yards away from his plastic igloo, and a half-dozen steel-blue creatures slide out of the airlock. When he climbs up again and sees the creatures, Jon runs for the rocky slopes. Jon brings out his stubray pistol and turns up the oxygen dial for greater exertion as two of the creatures continue to chase him. He manages to elude them by going down a dim trail temporarily. Once Jon finds the stubby bush shaped like a Maltese cross, he keeps going until he reaches the hollowed-out space. He observes the steel-blue creatures from the televisor, noting how they head towards the station to try and destroy it. Although the station is not supposed to break because it is made out of stelrylite, the creatures pound holes into the station with round-headed metal clubs. He presses the atomic cannon’s firing buttons and finds that it is impossible to damage the ship. Suddenly, a Steel-Blue paralyzes him from the waist down and tells him to come with them. Once outside, the Steel-Blue explains to Jon that the most protective metal they use is the softest one in their world. He follows the Steel-Blue into the ship, where a more massive one tells Jon’s Steel-Blue to examine him and give him death. The Steel-Blue brings him to the examination room, where Jon is curious about this whole interaction. He thinks about warning the SP patrol and using his weapon, but his Steel-Blue tells him they are already aware of it. The other Steel-Blues begin reproducing the service station, and Jon’s Steel-Blue tells him that his torture will be dissolved in a liquid they have prepared. When he goes inside, he prepares to blast at the cylinder with his gun. However, the tentacles take it away from him and bring him a glass-like cup filled with liquid. Jon toasts to Earth and drinks the liquid, going to sleep shortly after. When he awakes again, the Steel-Blues are amazed that he is still alive. On the fifth day, Jon breaks out of his plastic bowl with his subray because he is hungry. The Steel-Blues try to torture him more with the poison, and Jon has now made it a fetish to stay alive. When Jon takes the drink from No. 1, it tells him that the SP ship will be destroyed. Jon tries to send a distress signal, and he watches as the SP ship begins to come abruptly. The Steel-Blues watch as he tries to escape, only to be greeted by the voice of a space guard. Captain Ron Small of SP-101 tells him later that the Steel-Blues fed him a liquid they feared. The Steel-Blues tried to fight back, but the SP ship just shot a water rocket and set it on atomic fire. Captain Small and Jon then toast to water.

<s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

The Steel-Blue creatures are described to be steel-blue in color. They have egg-shaped heads and walking appendages. The Steel-Blues are also around the height of Jon at six feet, and their appendages are many-jointed. These appendages also stretch and shrink independent of each other, but the cylindrical body and tentacles are kept on a level balance. Instead of eyes, the Steel-Blues have elliptical-shaped lenses that cover half of the head and converge around the sides of the head. Jon notes that they are robots without masters. When Jon follows the Steel-Blue later, he notes that it has a lens on the back of its head as well. The massive steel-blue creature that Jon meets has four more tentacles, including two short ones that grow out of its head.

<s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

The story is initially set on an asteroid, where a stationary rocket station is. Jon has a blue plastic igloo to live in. There is also a ravine where he runs to in an attempt to elude the Steel-Blues. There are bushes, water, and dense thicket that he must go through before getting to the hollowed-out space in the center. At the station, there is a lock for his key to go through. The lever then opens to a long tunnel, and there is a televisor that fixes on the area. The station is made out of stelrylite, but it becomes riddled with holes after the Steel-Blues attack. The station also has a row of studs and a revolving turret that fires atomic cannons. There is a yellow, blue, and red button to fire. The Blue Steels’ spaceship can change its part to a bubble-like metal. The spaceship of the invaders is pitch-black and is a maze-like corridor. At the end, there is a circular room with bright light streaming from a glass-like and bulging skylight. In the examination room, the Steel-Blues build a miniature reproduction of the space station with plastic walls. There is a small opening in the four foot cylinder that brings him a strange liquid. Although the Steel-Blues are always present, the tank they keep him in is fairly easy to break out of.

<s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

Jon uses a stubray pistol that he keeps on him at all times. The space station itself is fairly equipped, with a thin turret that can fire atomic cannons. The ship that the Steel Blues arrive in is very advanced as well, and it is capable of recovering from the cannon. The Steel Blue’s build his habitat out of plastic and other material that they have in possession. When the Steel Blue’s begin Jon’s torture, they feed him a drink that he thinks is hemlock. Later, Jon also uses his little power-pack radio to send a distress signal to the SP ship. When the SP ship defeats the Steel Blues, they use a rocket tube to shoot water and then atomic fire.

<s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

Jon is initially curious about the Steel-Blue that he first meets in the space station. When he notices that it has eyes on the back of its head, it even says “Thank you” to him. It also tells him that its species can read his mind. The Steel-Blue also explains to him that the metal they use at the station is considered to be the softest one from where the Space Blue’s come from. It is not openly hostile towards him, but it does speak almost contemptuously when they go to the examination room. Although his Steel Blue initially did not show much hostility, it does warn him to not even think about contacting the SP ship or using his weapon. However, it does tease him and say that he gets absent-minded at times. When it tells him about the torture, his Blue Steel speaks in an almost-caressing way as well. When Jon breaks out of his tank to find food, his Steel-Blue tells him that it is the first of the creatures that he has met. It commands him to go back to the tank. Although it seems friendly at first, Jon and the Steel-Blue do not have any sort of positive relationship. The Steel-Blue wishes to see him suffer, while Jon wants to survive and get out of the torture room.

<s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

This story follows the protagonist, Hogey Parker’s, journey in heading back home after a long stint in space. His identity leans heavily on being a spacer - or a tumbler - with distinguishing sunburned marks and glare-blinded eyes. Parker is accompanied by a bottle of gin, and with it, stumbles onto a bus. In his drunken ramblings and stumblings - attributed by himself to him being a spaceman - Hogey creates a ruckus on the bus and disturbs its passengers. Fellow passengers give him allowances as he’s a spaceman and help him out. Throughout his journey, he is helped by various characters who further progress his journey back home. After being dropped off, the bus driver helps him across the road, where he is later then picked up by a farmer who drops Hogey off even closer to his farmhouse. In between, Hogey constantly looks up at the Big Bottomless space and thinks about his time in space with particular feelings of resentment and anger - one towards the sun for blinding him and another towards the rookie that replaced him. After finally making it close to his farmhouse, he sneaks through the grass past the fence and encounters the dog, who he quickly shushes when one of his wife’s brothers comes out to investigate the noise. Staring at his wife and son through the house, he stumbles into wet concrete and quickly becomes stuck in the sand as it dries. Despite his best efforts he is unable to claw himself out. At the end of the story, his cries at being stuck in the concrete echo at the same time the cries of his son as the Hauptmann men find him, stuck.

<s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

There is an ironic significance in Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete. Throughout the story, Hogey’s identity is tied to being a tumbler - a spaceman. Not only does he physically look like a spacer with his sun-burned marks from his goggles, he has also been blinded by the sun’s glare. It is only due to these characteristics that other people give him allowances while Hogey is in a drunken stupor. Hogey constantly speaks to separate himself from everyone else - even his wife - by identifying as a tumbler and them as hoofers. He insists that he was born as a tumbler and belongs in space, and hence blames his drunken inability to walk as due to a difficulty in adjusting to the gravity on Earth. He insists that he has to become a hoofer, but refuses to, and at the end of the story even denounces his wife and child. It is ironic then, that by Hogey’s feet being stuck in the concrete, he has reluctantly become a hoofer as his feet are literally encased in the Earth.

<s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

Hogey gets home through the kindness of the hoofers, who all know him to be a spacer due to the white marks on his face. As such, when Hogey becomes rowdy and drunk on the bus, they gracefully pick him up and seat him down at the back of the bus. After getting off the bus, Hogey has trouble crossing the highway with all the passing cars and the bus driver compassionately helps him across the road. The driver even inquired about someone picking him up, before warning Hogey not to traipse through the hills alone and instead, wait for someone to come along. As Hogey staggers down the pavement, he stumbles in front of a farmer’s truck. Since the farmer recognizes Hogey’s residence and identity, he helps Hogey get closer to his destination and drops him off right on the road in front of Hauptman’s place.

<s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

A tumbler and a hoofer are considered to be two types of people, as described by Hogey’s drunken ramblings. A tumbler is someone who lives in space and never interacts with gravity. As such, a tumbler is often clumsy and has limbs that flail about. In addition, a tumbler is not meant to be a family man, and should neither have a wife nor children. Therefore, a hoofer is a person who lives on Earth and is rooted to the ground by gravity, as they have never traveled to space. By contrast, they would have a family, like Marie Parker does with her son. In addition, the hoofers in this story are stable and kind, like the farmer and the bus driver, who all help Hogey when his limbs and center of gravity fail him.

<s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

This story takes place on Earth. As we are following the protagonist’s journey home, the setting constantly changes in terms of transportation mode and the landscape. First, we can identify the setting as a public bus, where Hogey occupies the back seats of the bus as he falls asleep clutching his gin. Hogey gets off at his stop - Caine’s junction - which is a road junction with just a few farmhouses at the side and a derelict filling station. There is also a ditch, which he promptly stumbles into. The landscape reveals the Great Plains country, with descriptions of the setting being treeless and barren, and instead being full of rolling hills and fields of grass.Towards the end of the story, the setting changes to the Hauptman’s place where the farmhouse sits off the side of the road with a barbed-wire fence. Within the tall grass of the farmhouse also lies a sloppy heap of sand - concrete.

<s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s>

Edward Loyce spends the whole day repairing the foundation. When he drives past the town park, he sees a thing hanging under the lamppost. He realizes that it’s a hanging human. Ed is frightened because of the hanged body and because everyone seems to not care about it. People walk past and ignore it. Ed tells the owners of other shops, trying to figure out the situation. However, both the owners think it is normal. After realizing he is the only one who feels strange, Ed gets closer to the hanged body, noticing that it’s a stranger. He bumps into Jenkins, a stationary clerk. Through the conversation with Jenkins and the jewelry store owner, he realizes that he is the only normal person in the town. He shouts to get the police, makes his way through the crowd, and finally gets into the police’s car.When he tries to understand the situation from the police, he realizes that the police are fake because he knows every cop in the town. He escapes from the fake police. When he gets closer to the police station, he sees a swarm of alien flies landing on the roof of City Hall and flying inside of the building, disguising themselves as men coming out of the City Hall. Ed realizes that they are aliens from other dimensions trying to control the humans and already control the minds of town people, except for him, as he escapes from it when repairing the foundation. He cautiously leaves and takes the bus. People on the bus are mind-controlled. A man with a book is looking at him, and Ed guesses the identity of the seemingly mind-clear man. When another older man ascends the bus and looks at the man with the book, Ed realizes the strangeness and escapes from the bus. Two men come after Ed, and Ed kills the man with the book and runs away. A doubt about killing the wrong person flashes through his mind, but he has no time to think.He tells his wife to get ready to leave when he gets home. He picks up a butcher knife and explains everything to his wife. When the twins come down, he sees a baby alien fly come toward him. Ed kills the alien, abandons his dazed wife and child, and flees. He runs ten miles towards Oak Grove. He explains everything to the Commissioner. The Commissioner records and agrees with his saying. Ed talks about his theory of the alien, but he cannot figure out the purpose of the hanged body. Finally, the Commissioner tells him that it is bait to lure people like him who escape successfully. Ed is frightened and realizes that he will be hanged in Oak Grove, just like the hanged body in Pikeville. That evening, Clarence Mason, the vice president of the Oak Grove Merchant’s Bank, sees a hanging object under the telephone pole in front of the police station.

<s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s>

Edward C. Loyce has been the owner of the TV sales store in the town for twenty-five years, and he is also called Ed by the town people. He is forty years old, living at 1368 Hurst Road, Pikeville. He has a wife, Janet, and twin sons, Jimmy and Tommy. He owns a Packard. He is practical and always tries to correct wrong things. He is friendly because he knows everyone in the town, and everyone seems to have a good relationship with him. Ed is brave because when he realizes that nobody pays attention to the hanged body in the town park, he gets closer and tries to figure out who the corpse is. Ed is also brilliant because he grasps the abnormal situations immediately after noticing the difference between the current situation and the normal one and because he sees the alien’s power flaws right after knowing the situation. He is also practical because he plans what he should do right after grasping the situation in the town. He is cautious as he kills the man with the book on the bus, not letting the aliens' slight chance get him. His will is formidable because he runs with his feet for ten miles along the rough ground to escape from Pikeville and because he makes the decision immediately when he knows that he has to abandon his family.

<s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s>

The hanged human body is bait to lure people who escape successfully from the mind control of alien flies and draw themselves out. People who are not under mental control would try everything they can to escape from the controlled town to the nearby uncontrolled town, but when they arrive in the uncontrolled town, they will be hanged as another bait in the new town, just like what happens to Ed Loyce in the story. When Ed notices the hanged body in the park and the strangeness that nobody cares about, he tries everything to alert people and escape. Yet, he ends up being suspended by the Commissioner in the town nearby as a new bait to lure people like him. The fact that the uncontrolled person escapes from the controlled town is also why the hanged body looks like a stranger in a town because the person often comes from another town. This fact also constitutes why the body is caked with mud, and its clothes are torn and ripped because it is the consequence of a long journey from another town to where it is hanged.

<s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s>

The alien flies have multi-lensed inhuman eyes, wings, and a stinger. They are dark, coming from another dimension. They look like giant insects in their original form. When they move, they will produce a buzzing sound. They can mimic the appearance of humans, and they can control human minds. However, their mind control ability has its limit that they can control one area at one time, starting from the highest authority and widening down the control in a circle. When they control the whole town, they move to another area to continue. Their power flaw makes them unable to control everyone that someone may be overlooked. When that is the case, they set up a trap, using people who escape from the controlled town as bait to hang them in public, to lure people who are not under control to come to them by themselves. They anticipate their failures and are smart enough to make up for their flaws.

<s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s>

The story happens in Pikeville town and Oak Grove town. The first scene occurs in the town park where the hanged body is. In the park, there is a lamppost, a drinking fountain, and a bench. Under the lamppost, the body is hanged. The second scene is in the car, where Ed has a conversation with the fake police. When Ed escapes from the fake police, he runs into a hardware store filled with customers and clerks. There is a back door in the shipping room, a garbage can next to the door, and concrete stairs outside the store towards the top of the fence. The other side of the fence is an entrance to an alley, which is filled with boards and ruined boxes and tires. Passing the loading platform of a grocery store stands one wall of the Hall of Justice. The wall is white with barred windows. The City Hall is next to the police station, with yellow wooden walls with brass cement steps. Cedars and flowers are planted on each side of the entrance. When Ed gets on the bus, the people sitting around him are all dull, tired, and quiet. No one pays attention to him. People seem to be normal: one is reading the newspaper, another with business suits sits quietly, and the other gazes absently towards the front. When Ed escapes from the bus, he runs into a residential district, pavement sides with tall apartment buildings and lawns. When Ed comes home, there are windows with shades in the living room. The house is a two-floor building. The twin’s room is upstairs. There is a basement in the house. In the kitchen, a butcher knife lies in the drawer under the sink. On his way to Oak Grove, rough ground, gullies, open fields, and forest are along the way. In Oak Grove, there is a gasoline station and drive-in. Several trucks park there—some chickens on the field and a dog tied with the string. In front of the police station in Oak Grove, a telephone pole is suitable to hang a human body.

<s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s>

The story is set on Mars. A group of conquerors from Earth arrived here after the last four crews never returned after deciding to climb a very high Martian mountain. The fifth team with Bruce, Marsha - his past love interest, Anhauser, Jacobs, Doran, Max Drexel, Stromberg - the psychologist, and its captain Terrence arrived here on their ship Mars V eight months ago. A day before the ascent Bruce is reading Byron and thinking about his bizarre dreams. Then we see an inquest. With all the crew members listening, Terrence interrogates Bruce and asks why he shot Doran. Bruce reminds the crew about the genocide of the Venusian aborigines: five years ago, he and Doran were part of the crew of the first ship that landed on Venus; these explorers wiped out the entire Venusian community. Terrence claims that Bruce is mentally ill and doesn’t have the real conquering blood. The captain understands the young man doesn’t believe in the philosophy of conquering and remains faithful to the old ideas of democracy and freedom. Bruce then explains that Marsha and Doran woke him up after a bizarre dream, and he immediately saw something or someone in the window. When Doran saw the creature, he left the room, and Bruce heard his rifle go off. Infuriated, Bruce killed the man. Stromberg deems Bruce a delusional schizophrenic and says that Doran probably imagined the creature, too. Instead of punishing the man by executing him, Terrence orders Bruce to write down everything they report via radio while they are climbing. He stays by the radio, eats what they left for him, and sometimes sleeps. Eventually, Terrence reports that the mountain is way higher than they anticipated - 45 00 feet. Later, he screams that he just killed Anhauser for dissent. The captain speaks of their great conquest, and Bruce sometimes replies to prove he's still writing down everything. His dreams become more realistic and he seems to see some crew members of the previous expeditions: Pietro, Marlene, and Helene. Terrence reports that they are at an altitude of five hundred thousand feet and later adds that Marsha is dying. She says she loves Bruce, and he recites a poem for her. Terrence later crazily speaks about toppling the Solar system but soon stops reporting. Bruce turns off the radio. The exterior of the ship changes - now he sees a small town and the grandiose mountain vanished. Not sure if it’s a dream or not, he approaches Helene, who eventually explains that the Martians wanted to stop the human conquerors. They decided to create an illusion of an infinitely high mountain, and the colonists felt an uncontrollable urge to climb it. They both walk to a red mound, where Bruce notices the bodies of the crew members of all five ships. Only people like him remained alive. Bruce looks at them and, together with Helene, leaves the mound, entering the city.

<s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s>

At the beginning, Jacobs, Bruce, and Anhauser talk aboard their ship Mars V which recently landed on the windy surface of Mars. Bruce then looks at the even Martian landscape with an incredible mountain right near the ship and the double moons illuminating the surface. When everybody else leaves to climb the mountain, he spends his time on the spaceship, eating, sleeping, and sitting by the radio. Bruce dreams of a green valley and canals inside a town. And later, when the crew stops reporting anything, he finally can see the real landscape of Mars. He looks at numerous low hills with purple mist, a canal, and valleys with green trees. The mountain disappeared. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, there is an ugly red mound with the bodies of the conquerors lying there. After looking at Marsha and Terrence, together with Helene, he walks along the canal back to the city.

<s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s>

Bruce and Marsha were close years ago when they lived on Earth. They shared similar values and loved each other, but eventually, Marsha became one of the conquerors, ready to expand the human territories. Now she’s almost emotionless. Bruce is disappointed and reckons that the other conquerors had gotten her young, and there was nothing he could do about it. When he’s interrogated, the psychologist asks if she saw any creature before Bruce shot Doran. She seems hesitant and doesn’t look at Bruce when denying seeing anything. When she is dying, she crazily laughs and admits that she is in love with him, asking Bruce to read her a poem. At the end, he finds Marsha’s body among the eroded hills and puts it beside the city canal. He says that he loved her once, and she could’ve been sane, different if the conquerors hadn’t got her when she was so young.

<s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s>

The mountain is a sign of an impossible obstacle that the conquerors from Earth want to overcome, topple. Their urge to expand their territories and own the entire Solar System forces the Martians to come up with an illusion of something that can stop the destruction humans are spreading. The Martian mountain is a part of the hypnotic vision the conquered had access to, but they never saw the Martian city. They all ultimately died trying to climb it, from their drive to conquer everything they could find. The mountain is a perfect symbol of humans’ greed for territories and power, and it is also what stops them all from expanding their so-called empire.

<s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s>

Terrence is the ship’s captain. At the beginning, he serves as a judge when he interrogates Bruce, who killed the other crew member Doran. Terrence listens to the story about Venus and claims that Bruce is not a true conqueror and is simply a psycho. He then asks a question about Bruce’s dreams and later hears the story of Doran's death. Stromberg then concludes that Bruce has schizophrenia caused by inner conflict. He also supposes that Doran imagined the strange creature after Terrence asks him to explain the actions of the killed crew member. Finally, instead of killing Bruce, Terrence orders him to sit by the radio and write down everything they report while climbing. He reports that they are at fifteen and then twenty-five thousand feet and are to take a little time out. At forty thousand feet, he tells Bruce that the mountain is way higher than they thought - their computations are wrong. At sixty thousand feet, he shoots Anhauser after the latter starts dissenting and becomes hysterical and claims the mountain to be a tester for the real conquerors. Eventually, they reach the mark of five hundred thousand feet, and the captain is shocked. Later, Marsha unexpectedly starts dying, and Terrence concludes that women don’t have real guts for such undertakings. At six hundred thousand feet, he starts declaring that they will soon find the top of the universe. Terrence made it farther than any other crew member of the five ships. He dies with his fingers still clutching the rock outcroppings. In reality, he’s just over twelve miles away from the spaceship horizontally.

<s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s>

The protagonist of this story is Roddie, a young male character whose interactions with the characters around him include mechanical arms and robotic functionalities. It turns out that Roddie lives within a dystopian city, to which alongside his android friends, seek to defend the city against its enemy. Whilst going about his day, Roddie investigates the manhole he often frequents and finds that it has recently been visited by something warm. Further investigation reveals Ida to be the culprit, a human female who has decided to help the wounded in the city.Despite Roddie’s initial hesitance, Ida and Roddie strike up an easygoing acquaintance and gallivant around the city, with the latter guiding the former due to his experience. In addition to helping Ida find food and shelter, Roddie is able to ward off a potential attack from an android soldier with a talisman - his watch. However, this watch leads Ida to be suspicious of Roddie. As they neared the bridge, Ida insists on bringing Roddie back to where he belongs, fearing he had been wrongfully taken or indoctrinated. After a chase and climbing up the south tower, Roddie notices that Ida may be able to inform her fellow humans on how to infiltrate the city due to them being on top of the bridge. Choosing to defend his city and prove himself to his friends, Roddie does not hesitate to kill Ida and advances to do so. Ida begins to cry and defend her people - insisting that they are on the same side as Men and that the city belongs to the two of them, not Roddie’s friends. Initially in disbelief, Roddie continues to advance before deciding to leave it for the next morning before comforting Ida and later on, realizing that he too, is Man.

<s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s>

Ida is a human girl that Roddie first encounters when she is hiding in the manhole that he frequents himself. She appears to have come into the android-ridden city on her own with the altruistic desire to help the wounded. She is selfless and persistent in her mission. She is inexperienced with the android world as demonstrated by her fright when the pair encountered a soldier, who only walked away after Roddie confronted it. Similarly, Roddie had to guide her around the city and help her with access to resources like shelter and food. Ida is loyal and brave as well. Despite Roddie threatening to kill her at the end of the story, Ida insists on the idea that they are both human and that Roddie’s way of thinking was incorrect. In the end, she is able to discourage him from killing her and he ends up comforting her.

<s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s>

Although Roddie has been preparing his entire life for defense against something, someone, he never knows who his enemy is. Ida - by nature of being Man - is his enemy, as Roddie believes him to be an android. When they first meet in the darkness, Roddie is afraid that Ida may realize what he is. However, they have no trouble once they see each other and spend the entire day together. Roddie proudly takes the role of Ida’s caretaker, noting that she is scared of the soldiers and not as strong as he is, so he takes her to a supermarket and feeds her. However, when Roddie reveals the talisman that prevented the soldier from attacking, their relationship changes. Ida tries to take Roddie back to her boat where she proclaims he belongs and Roddie insists that he belongs in this android-ridden dystopia. In their chase, they end up atop a tower. Realizing Ida now has the knowledge to bring home to the Invaders on how to enter the city, Roddie feels a sense of duty to kill her. She is the enemy, as he thinks she wishes to harm his city. As Ida cries - something Roddie can do but his friends can’t - he realizes that he too is Man and decides not to kill her.

<s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s>

The first tool that Roddie uses is a screwdriver with a broken handle. He uses it to tinker with and screw Molly’s head back onto her robot body, after tearing it off himself. He also used it when he was considering heating it over a fire to mold it into a different tool, but ended up not completing it. His hammer is his weapon. Roddie keeps his hammer on his body, which he was able to reach for conveniently when he initially found a warm body hiding in the manhole. All throughout this initial encounter with Ida, Roddie has his hammer close to him, either clutching it or holding it in his mouth while climbing the ladder. He also uses it as a tool to break open cans. Finally, at the end of the story, he is prepared to use the hammer to kill Ida - even going as far as raising it threateningly - before deciding not to.

<s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s>

Put simply, Roddie is Man and his friends in the story are androids. Despite growing up with them and having been brought up by Molly, Roddie is human. One clear difference is the fact that Roddie is able to tear off the limbs of his friends and repair it back together. For example, he tore off Molly’s head when her “spells” became worse, and then later tinkered it back on her head. Another example of this difference is when Ida begins to cry at the end of the story, and Roddie internally expresses that the first time he wept was the first time he noted a difference between him and his android friends, who presumably cannot emote in the same way. Similarly, they do not know pain nor fatigue, so Roddie pretends he doesn’t either. At the very end of the story, he finally accepts that he is Man.

<s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s>

The story is set in the future where Mars’ two moons Phobos and Deimos unexpectedly vanished, space travel exists, and monogamous marriages are lawful. Celeste Wolver talks to her friend Madge Carnap, who claims that the old book The Dance of The Planets predicted the moons’ disappearance. Wolver’s husband, one of the three ones she has, Theodor tries to explain that the book predicts only some events, but he and Celeste soon understand they don’t have strong arguments. Then Celeste and Theodor leave for a meeting regarding the recent events. While walking there, she shares her worries with him. Theodor says ESPs around the world have similar dreams. So, Rosalind, one of his wives, will bring their daughter Dotty to the meeting. Celeste, Rosalind, Frieda, Theodor, and Edmund were waiting only for the third husband, Ivan. Rosalind leaves to look for him, and the others start the meeting. They listen to recent news recordings: Mars’ moons disappeared; Kometevskyites - people that believe in the theory of The Dance of The Planets - demand some government's action. The news anchorman declares that Jupiter’s fourteen moons are not visible anymore. Rosalind comes back and says she only found Ivan’s briefcase covered in mud, with the phrase "Going down” hastily written on it. They alert local agencies and talk about the project - Deep Shaft - Ivan was studying. The family splits up for a thirty-minute break, and Rosalind goes to where she found the briefcase. There the woman soon starts sinking into the ground. Rosalind realizes what happened to Ivan and leaves a glove pointing down as a sign; soon, her body is underground, and she keeps moving down mud and soil. Theodor, who went to the bar for the break, meets a colonel who tells him that there is a war between good and evil, and the planets are battleships controlled by divine power. The stories of these characters get interrupted by small extracts from Dotty’s dreams, where she calls herself a god, and says she and her friends have been found by their enemies and need to flee. Dotty wakes up and tells Celeste she is a god. Celeste goes back to everybody, and Edmund lists all the known facts. He says Deep Shaft found a metallic durasphere inside the Earth and proposes that other moons had it too. Ivan and Rosalind are drawn into the depth of the Earth, and in their dreams, all ESPs say they will leave in some great boats. Everybody understands that their planet is a camouflaged spaceship. Suddenly, Dotty says in an unfamiliar voice that their assumption is correct. The creature uses Dotty to tell them people were part of the camouflage they needed to hide from the enemies who don’t support mental privacy. Now they have to leave and can take only a few people. Suddenly, the creature says that their enemies changed, and now they don’t need to hide or destroy the planet. Rosalind and Ivan return.

<s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s>

The incredibly old semi-god creatures escaped the tyranny of a communal mind to which no thoughts were private. These creatures believe in the principle of mental privacy, and that’s why they escaped and planted seeds of life on planets, including the Earth, as part of their camouflage. Humanity exists as a result of these actions, and it also may shrink in numbers since the creatures have been found by their pursuers and are ready to leave again, thus destroying the planet. The belief in this principle also allowed the enemies of these creatures to rebel against the communal mind and welcome them back to the society of enlightened worlds and let humans live.

<s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s>

Rosalind is a member of the Wolves family, the wife of Theodor, Edmund, and Ivan. At the beginning of the story, she comes to the meeting of their family sub-committee. When Ivan doesn’t show up, Rosalind decides to go to the Deep Space Bar and try to find him. On her way back, she finds his briefcase half-buried in the dirt. It has a hastily written phrase “Going down” written on it. Shocked, she comes back and shows her findings to everybody. They alert the local agencies and create their family member’s description that is broadcast. They decide to take a small break, and Rosalind leaves right after Theodor. She doesn’t catch up with him and stops at the place where she found the briefcase. Suddenly, her feet get stuck, and her body starts sinking into the ground. She understands that the same thing happened to Ivan and decides to leave her glove to show what happened to her. Soon earth covers her head, and she keeps moving down through different soil levels. The temperature rises, and soon she ends up in a silver egg-shaped room where she meets Ivan. A voice inside their heads explains that their bodies will soon go through a painless process of separation into small atom-thick layers which will enable them to endure almost infinite accelerations, and their consciousness will be intact. They learn more about the Earth and its function. Soon, when the pursuers of the semi-god creatures tell them about the changes they made, Rosalind and Ivan are shot back to the surface. They walk back to their family.

<s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s>

Throughout the entire story, the narrative gets interrupted by small parts of Dotty's dreams. She has extrasensory abilities, and the semi-god creatures use her and other ESPs to communicate with people. In her dreams, she tells the story of these creatures' life. She speaks about their belief in mental privacy and says that other gods do not want them to have private thoughts and decide to hunt them down. The creatures that value privacy of thoughts create inhabited planets and manage to hide for millions of years from the others. But now they have been found and need to flee again. Dotty’s dreams conceptually explain the origin of the planets of the Solar System and why those need to be destroyed now. Through her dreams, the creatures tell the Earth is their camouflaged spaceship, and they will soon need to live.

<s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s>

From the beginning, Celeste seems to struggle with her complex marriage. She finds it hard to find complete security in three men simultaneously. In a crisis, it’s disturbing for her to have her source of security divided into three. She also cannot accept that Dotty is her daughter because the girl was born from Frieda. Celeste points out that the probability of Dotty being Theodor’s daughter is only one-third. She reckons that humanity might have gone too far with some things, including monogamous marriages. While in the committee room, she tries to determine if they are a true family or just experimenting with their relationship. The family members seem both familiar and unfamiliar to her. When she wants to check up on Dotty, she thinks that she is no one to the girl but still goes on. Dotty, after a small chat, makes Celeste say that she loves her. In the end, the reader understands that, no matter what Celeste’s feelings are, Dotty loves all three women and considers them mothers.

<s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s>

Harry Burr is begged by his wife Edna to go see a doctor because she believes that he is sick in the head. He refuses to believe that anything is wrong, but he does admit that there are times where he lies in fear over nothing and mixes up his memories. The story then jumps to the present, where he begins to think about a blond boy named Davie. Edna is confused because they have no children. Edna brings up seeing a doctor again, he angrily responds that it will only be Timkins who brought their son into the world. Edna tells him they had no son, and Timkins died a while ago. The scene cuts to breakfast, where Harry complains about a lack of meat. Edna explains that there is only multi-pro because of the current crisis in the country. Harry begins to go walk outside, but he experiences more strange memories that don’t add up. He picks up the delivery that Edna ordered. Edna asks if there is anything good on television this week because there is only one channel. After a late lunch, Harry goes to check on the animals again and wonders what happened to the rest of the livestock. Edna tells him that they got the same as everyone else, and he goes upstairs again. When he awakes again, Gloria and Walt have arrived. He asks about Penny and Frances. After they leave, He takes his mare Plum out for a ride, and they arrive at a barbed wire fence area up north. He gets over the wire and continues to walk north, until the earth changes to sand. Then, the sand becomes wooden flooring; there is also a loud roaring sound. When he reaches a waist-high metal railing, he runs back to Plum again. Harry has the idea to ride to town, even if the other neighbors tell him to stop and for somebody to call the police. Soon, two policemen come out to escort him to the doctor. Harry asks the doctor where his son is, and the doctor explains that he is dead like so many millions of others. The doctor tells him he has so many things to do, and he says there are a few remaining people who are still alive. Harry’s brain struggles with the impossible concept, and he thinks about how this is not Iowa. Just as Harry realizes what they are on, the switch is thrown, and he finds himself feeling better from the diathermy treatment. Before Harry leaves, the doctor tests him one last time by telling him that they are on an ark. Harry is confused, which means that the treatment works. He goes home to Edna and is happier than ever.

<s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s>

Doctor Hamming is first described by Edna as someone who can treat Harry’s so-called “mental problems”. She insists for Harry to go see him multiple times, but Harry refuses every time. Finally, when Harry is escorted by the policemen does he go meet Doctor Hamming in person. In person, Doctor Hamming is a thin little man with a bald head and framed glasses. He also wears a white coat and looks about one hundred years old. He lives with his two sons, and his wife is not around anymore. His son’s names are Pete and Stan. Doctor Hamming is a very stressed person, constantly trying to manage the ark. He is also impatient as well, raising his voice when Harry asks him about his dead son. However, although the doctor is impatient, he is very knowledgeable in his field as well. He predicted that people will begin to die from a disaster and invested a lot of his money to build the ark. He has exceptional planning skills, picking out the farmers in the rural areas as people to continue living on the ark because he knows how important the farmers are. The doctor’s treatments are very successful as well, capable of completely erasing Harry Burr’s conflicting memories and making him forget that they are on an ark.

<s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s>

Harry and Edna Burr are married. Initially, Edna is very concerned about Harry because of the strange memories that he experiences. She tries to plead with him to see a doctor, but he refuses to believe it. Harry is seen getting impatient with Edna, mainly because she is confused about the questions or people that he talks about. Even though she is concerned, Edna is good at comforting Harry. When he complains about the lack of meat, she tells him that they will have some multi-pro for lunch. The two of them split their duties as well, with Edna doing a lot of the housework and Harry doing the more manual labor. She also tries to suggest activities to do, such as asking what’s on the channel for this week. Edna loves Harry very much, but she does encourage him to seek a doctor to help his mental health. At the end, when Harry returns from his treatment, she asks if he has gone out to break any regulations. He only laughs and says he would rather kill a pig than do that.

<s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s>

The story is set on an ark that Doctor Hamming put money into creating. Although it resembles Iowa, the residents are fooled to believe that it is indeed Iowa. Each of the residents have their own farm and land area, and they are restricted to only staying inside a certain area. For the Burrs, they cannot go beyond the Shanks’ place. Harry’s farm area has his house, an area for the livestock, and a tractor shed that was supposed to be torn off. Their area also has a supply bin that is shaped like an old-fashioned wood bin for deliveries from the government. The land they live on is also shared with the Franklins. When Harry takes Plum out for a ride, they go up north past the Franklins to where the Bessers should be. Then, they reach a small Pangborn farm. Beyond Pangborn, there lies old Wallace Elverton’s place, which is known as the biggest farm in the country. There is barbed wire in this area, and he walks past it. Slowly, the earth becomes sand and then wood. There are also colored folks living here, when there shouldn’t have been, and a place called Piney Woods exists as well. The place where Doctor Hamming lives is two miles past Dugan’s farm. It resembles a hospital, but there is nobody else inside of it.

<s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s>

One of the government restrictions that Edna reminds Harry about is the rationing of meat. Due to the crisis in the country, there is a shortage of meat. Instead of actual meat, most people eat multi-pro, which is similar to spam. The government also sets up boundaries for the residents to stay inside of, and they are not allowed to go past these regulations or else the police will come. The government also takes care of supplies, and most residents just have to write down what they want and pay a bill. In terms of money, the government takes care of it as well each week. Each farm receives the same number of animals because government agents paid flat rates. When Harry finds the stock of grain, he notes that the government has enough to keep going for a few years. Television is also restricted to old movies, playing only on one channel from nine to eleven at night. Later, it is revealed that these restrictions are imposed to keep the people alive on the ark long enough until they can begin to expand civilization again.

<s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s>

Herbert Quidley finds a yellow paper with unintelligible words folded in the book called History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine. After he continues to work, he sees a girl come in, browse randomly, and take Taine’s book. The girl quickly riffles through the book, puts it back on the shelf, and leaves the library. After the girl leaves, Quidley checks the book, noticing the disappearance of the yellow paper. He learns the girl’s name, Kay Smith, from the librarian and goes home. On his way home, he guesses that the paper is a kind of message transmitted through an esoteric book. He guesses the identity of the person who might do this message job with Kay, none of which pleases him as he has a liking for the girl, so he decides to observe this messaging action for a while.The following day, when Quidley waits at the library, a girl different from Kay comes to the library, puts another paper in Taine’s book, and leaves. Quidley sees the paper and finds another batch of unintelligible words, from which he finds two common words, Fieu Dayol and snoll doper. He puts back the letter and goes back to his seat. When the library is about to close, Kay comes to take the paper and leaves. Quidley follows behind her into a coffee bar. He intentionally spills the sugar on her, which allows him to start talking to her. Throughout the conversation, Quidley reveals his identity as a profiliste and accepts Kay’s request to make her a profile. They set up a time to meet next time. After they separate, Quidley goes home and writes a letter to his father for the allowance.Two days later, Quidley goes to the library again and sits at his reading-table post with his favorite magazine. He sees the third woman come in and do the same thing as the previous girls. He reads the new message and returns to his apartment waiting for Kay. He thinks about the meaning of snoll doper. When Kay comes, they do something sexually. The following day, puzzled by the secret of the snoll doper, Quidley decides to read the message before the exchange happens. Kay finds out that Quidley is reading the message. She tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka and meet her folks. When Quidley waits in the car, he realizes the possible true identity of Kay and what may happen next. Quidley learns from the conversation with Kay that they are heading to the ship to Fieu Dayol. He also learns that Kay is the ship’s stock girl, and all the messages are actually requisitions for the snoll dopers. He realizes that he is kidnapped to another planet, Fieu Dayol, where women outnumber men. He sees a man with Jilka ascend the ship and disappear. Kay forces Quidley to go into the ship by pointing him with a shotgun, which is called snoll doper in Kay’s language.

<s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s>

She is tall with hyacinth long hair and blue eyes. Her skin is glowingly white. Her body shape is Grecian symmetric. She fascinates Herbert Quidley, a man who finds out the secret letter in Taine’s book, when she walks in the library. She is the receiver of secret messages in the book, and she goes to the library almost every day to pick up the letter in the book. She wears a pleated skirt when Herbert Quidley spills the sugar on her thighs. She speaks with a slight accent that she pronounces “interesting” with “anteresting.” She walks demurely. She wears a dress that exposes a lot of her skin when she goes to Quidley’s apartment, which indicates her intention to have sexual behaviors with him. She owns a convertible, and her purse hides a gun. She is the stock girl on the ship to Fieu Dayol, and her job is to deliver guns to her members, which is why she goes to the library to pick up the secret letters, the requisitions for the guns. It is revealed at the end that she comes to the Earth to bring men to her planet.

<s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s>

Herbert Quidley is a profiliste who often stays in the library. He has a variety of pseudonyms for his career, each of which has its own card in his wallet. He owns a hardtop. He lives at 61 Park Place. He often wears Cuban heels. His favorite little magazine is The Zeitgeist. He likes everything old, such as old books, old wines, old woods, and old paintings. But most of all, he likes young girls, which is why he starts his observations on Kay’s behavior, a girl who exchanges letters through the book in the library. Quidley is a very thoughtful and careful person because whenever he reads the mysterious letters in the book, he always puts the letters back in the book and replaces the book on the shelf. He always sits at the reading table to observe the girls. He knows very well about romantic stuff and how to have sexual relationships with girls as he has his own skill called Operation Spill-the-sugar to start a conversation with a stranger woman. However, Quidley has little moral on sexual relationships because whether the targeted girl has a boyfriend would not deter his intention to conquer her.

<s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s>

Snoll doper appears in every letter that is hidden in History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine, a book favored by Hebert Quidley, from which he finds these letters and starts his observation. Quidley finds these words several times when he secretly reads the letters in the book whenever a girl comes to put a new letter in the book. He is fascinated by the first girl called Kay Smith who takes the first letter after he notices it. From then on, he has been guessing the meaning of snoll doper. At first, Quidley thinks that snoll doper means a person who has close relationships with Kay, like a boyfriend or a husband. He is annoyed by this possibility after having sexual behaviors with Kay, which causes him to secretly read the fourth letter before Kay comes to pick it up. When Kay finds out that Quidley has been reading her letter, she tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka, where Quidley is relieved because he realizes that snoll doper is the name of an object, not an identity. On their way to Jilka’s place, Quidley keeps asking Kay what the meaning of snoll doper is, but Kay doesn’t tell him. At the end of the story, snoll doper turns out to be the name of a shotgun, which is what the letters are for, a requisition for the shotgun. Those letters are sent toward Kay because she is the ship’s stock girl who delivers the guns. In conclusion, snoll doper is a word that puzzles Quidley throughout the whole story and causes him to be caught by Kay, the purpose of those secret letters transmitted between Kay and other girls through the book, and an object that forces Quidley to go into the ship.

<s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s>

The first scene is in the library. Hippolyte Adolphe Taine’s History of English Literature is in the literature section. The books are categorized in alphabetical order. Taine’s book is in the T-section. The secret letters are always hidden in Taine’s book in the T section, where the girls from Fieu Dayol always stop and take the book. A librarian sits at the front desk to handle administrative stuff. There are reading tables. The second scene is in an all-night coffee bar where Herbert Quidley conducts his Spill-the-sugar operation to start the conversation with the girl next to him. There is a sugar dispenser on the counter. The third scene is in Quidley’s apartment. There is a custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, a typewriter inserted with a blank sheet of paper, and the reference books stacked nearby. The magazine rack has Better Magazines, Harper’s, The Atlantic, and The Saturday Review. There is also a small table and a sideboard with a bottle of bourbon and two snifter glasses on top. The fourth scene is on the highway where Quidley is stuck in the car. The rutted road with trees points towards a ship. A ship with its lock open is hiding in the trees. It is dark.

<s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s>

This story follows the Martian Maid’s journey and features its crew members: a captain nicknamed ‘Captain Midas’, Mister Spinelli the Third Officer, and various other shipmates. It is revealed that many of the crew members have a lust for making money, and an apt opportunity to do so is discovered when Mister Spinelli spots a derelict ship amongst the asteroids that could be claimed by them. After a first exploration, Midas ends up with a mystery metal collected from the starship. In his further investigation, he finds that this mystery metal transforms into a heavier metal with a yellow tinge - gold. At the same time, he finds that holding the metal evokes fatigue in him, particularly in his arms. This initial investigation was interrupted by Spinelli barging into Midas’ quarters and spotting the gold. Fearful of the other shipmates knowing and hence collecting it for themselves, Midas threatens Spinelli’s silence. Midas continues the acquisition of this derelict ship by sending a crew, led by Cohn, to further investigate and take control of the ship. With Midas and Spinelli left behind, they watch their shipmates enter the alien ship. While waiting to hear back from the crew, Midas notices that Spinelli has arranged the Maid’s gun to point at the derelict ship and their crew mates. Initially enraged, Midas soon calms down as he begins to suspect that the rest of the crew knows about the gold and may be hatching an alternate plan. Two days past the check-in time, the pair receives a garbled message from the crew. Midas orders them to disembark and depart, but the starship begins to divert its course. In arguing between something being wrong and Spinelli telling the crew about the gold, Spinelli begins to inch towards the firing panel for the gun and a tussle emerges between the two with Midas killing him. After re-catching the derelict ship, Midas boards the ship to look for the rest of his crew mates. He finds the walls to turn into yellow metal and the decks to have a yellowish cast as well. Inside the ship, he sees skeletal and rusty versions of his crew, and comes to the horrifying realization that the transformation of the metal into gold comes at the expense of him and his crew member’s youth and strength. Running from the ship, Midas reboards the Maid and quickly throws the alien ship back into space. Back on Callisto, the Foundation relieves him of his command as the illness spreads to the rest of his body.

<s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s>

Captain Midas is the captain of the spaceship Martian Maid, who unknowingly takes the spaceship on its last flight in this story. He is described to be relatively young at 32 years old, but after interacting with the metal and at the end of the story, has the physical appearance of an eighty year old man with wrinkles and veiny hands. He is a greedy man. In the beginning of the story, he honestly admits that he would do quite a few things for a few solar dollars, which we see throughout the story. In addition to his greed, he is a selfish man, as in discovering the gold he threatens Spinelli to secrecy in order to keep the highest gains for himself. It is also this greed that allows Spinelli to get away with initially aiming the gun at the derelict ship and their fellow shipmates on board in case those shipmates try to escape with the gold. There are brief moments where he is shown to be an honorable man. For one, he fights Spinelli over blasting their fellow shipmates, and ends up killing Spinelli instead by accident. At the end of the story, he becomes terrified of the derelict ship and its devil metal, and yet still chooses to go aboard it to seek out his shipmates.

<s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s>

This story takes place in the Holcomb Foundation aboard Martian Maid. The Martian Maid is a grand ship that took off from Solis Lacus on its last flight; the ship spanned 200 feet in its length and despite its sleek exterior, was an armed ship as well. The Maid was on an orbit in a region strewn with asteroids between the outer systems and the EMV triangle. Aboard the spaceship, interactions between the characters in the story largely took place in the Control room. It also takes place in Captain Midas’ quarters, where he investigates the mystery metal. The setting also changes to include the derelict ship the crewmates had found, which presented itself as a shell of a vessel with torn interiors and yellow-tinged walls.

<s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s>

Mister Spinelli is Third Officer under the command of Captain Midas and was the first to report the derelict ship and observe its potential to be claimed by the Maid. Spinelli is the first and only crew member to identify the metal from the abandoned ship as gold when he saw Captain Midas with it. The tension between Midas and Spinelli escalates and their relationship becomes antagonistic as both of them desire to benefit the most from this valuable gold and with Midas constantly pulling his authority over Spinelli. After Midas barrs him from being a part of the investigative crew, suspicion arises between the two as Spinelli suspects Midas wishes to keep the pot of gold for himself and Midas thinks that Spinelli may be telling others. This tension further escalates as Midas sees Spinelli nearly hit the trigger of the gun and in rage, the two end up fighting each other before Midas aimed a kick at his temple and killed him.

<s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s>

The mystery metal is significant because it initially attracted the crew’s interest due to their greed - they had hoped to tear about the derelict starship and sell its pieces for millions. When the Captain tested out the mysterious metal and saw that it turned out to be gold, his greed increased so much that he became suspicious of his crew members that were sent out to investigate the ship. Although the Captain and his crew thought they could take advantage of this metal and benefit from it, it turns out that the opposite is true. Instead, it is this mystery metal that gains its yellow-tint and subsequent gold composition through drawing its energy from them and draining the crew of their youth and strength. The latter named ‘devil-metal’ demonstrates the hastiness of the greed of man, and how it led them to be so enraptured in greed that it blinded them of the wariness of strange objects in space, and hence led to their ultimate demise.

<s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s>

Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Stryakalski III, AKA Strike, is charged with commanding a run-down and faulty vessel, the Aphrodite. Aphrodite was the brain-child of Harlan Hendricks, an engineer who ushered in new technology ten years back. All three of his creations failed spectacularly, resulting in death and a failed career. The Aphrodite was the only ship to survive, and she is now used for hauling mail back and forth between Venus and Mars.Strike and Cob, the Aphrodite’s only executive to last more than six months, recount Strike’s great failures and how he ended up here. He used to fly the Ganymede, but was removed after he left his position to rescue colonists who didn’t need rescuing. Strike was no longer trustworthy in Admiral Gorman’s eyes, so he banished him to the Aphrodite. The circuit that caused the initial demise of Aphrodite was sealed off. After meeting some members of his crew, Strike orders a conference for all personnel and calls in an Engineering Officer, one I.V. Hendricks. After Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks arrives--not I.V.--Strike immediately insults her by degrading the ship’s designer, Harlan Hendricks. As it turns out, Hendricks is his daughter, and she vows to prove him wrong and all those who doubted her father. Despite their initial conflict, Strike and Hendricks’ relationship soon evolves from resentment to respect. During this time, Strike’s confidence in the Aphrodite plummets as she suffers from mechanical issues. The Aphrodite starts to heat up as they get closer to the sun. The refrigeration units could not handle the heat, causing discomfort among the crew. As they get closer, a radar contact reveals that two dreadnaughts, the Lachesis and the Atropos, are doing routine patrolling. Nothing to worry about, except the Atropos had Admiral Gorman on board, hated by Strike and Hendricks.Strike and Hendricks make a joke about Gorman falling into the sun. As the temperature steadily climbs, the crew members overheat and begin fighting, resulting in a black eye. A distress signal came through from the Lachesis: the Atropos, with Gorman on board, was tumbling into the sun. The Lachesis was attempting to rescue them with an unbreakable cord, but they too were being pulled in. Hendricks had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat, the one her father designed, and claimed it could help them rescue the ships. After some tension, Strike agrees and they race down to the sun to pick up the drifting dreadnaughts. Strike puts Hendricks in charge, but soon the heat overtakes her, and she is unable to continue. Strike takes over, attaches the Aphrodite to the Lachesis with a cord, and turns on the surge-circuit. They blast themselves out of there, rescuing the two ships and Admiral Gorman at the same time. Cob and Strike are awarded Spatial Cross awards, while Hendricks is promoted to an engineering position at the Bureau of Ships. The story ends with Cob and Strike flipping through the pages of an address book until they land on Canalopolis, Mars.

<s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s>

Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks is the daughter of Harlan Hendricks, a formerly respected engineer. He created the surge-circuit, an innovation in interstellar astrogation, and he was awarded a Legion of Merit. He designed three famous ships: the Artemis, the Andromeda, and the Aphrodite, the prototype. Despite being hailed as the latest and greatest in technology, all three ships either exploded or failed. According to Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks, their failures were due to the lack of education on board. She claimed that her father asked for the crew members to be trained in surge-circuit technology, so they could use it properly and correctly. That wish was not granted and after all three ships failed, his reputation and career were doomed. Admiral Gorman pulled the plug on his career and therefore became the target of all Lieutenant Hendricks’ hate. With a bone to pick, Lieutenant Hendricks, a knowledgeable engineer herself, comes aboard the Aphrodite to serve as her engineer and occasional pilot. She wants to prove to the world that her father’s creation was genius and deserving of praise. Although they started off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant Hendricks and Strike, her commander, develop a friendship and appreciation for each other. They bond over their deep hatred of Admiral Gorman and the joy of piloting a ship. She soon proves herself to Strike, and he begins to trust her. Their relationship walks the fine line between friendship and romance. As the Aphrodite is attempting to rescue the fallen dreadnaughts, Lieutenant Hendricks comes up with the solution. Due to her constant tinkering on the ship, she had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat and made it ready to use. Initially, no one trusts her, seeing as the last time it was used people died. But Strike’s trust in her is strong and true, so he approves the use of the surge-circuit. Hendricks pilots the ship, but soon becomes too overheated and comes close to fainting. Strike takes over piloting and eventually activates the surge-circuit. It works and they are able to rescue the two ships, one of which had Admiral Gorman, her sworn enemy, onboard. Lieutenant Hendricks receives a major promotion; she is now an engineer at the Bureau of Ships. She proved them wrong, and restored her father’s legacy and good name. The story ends with their romance left in the air, but Hendricks has much to be proud of.

<s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s>

Strike is a member of a famous, well-behaved, and well-trained service family. His father and grandfather served in World War II and the Atomic War, respectively. Both earned medals for their heroic service. Strike, however, did not follow in his family’s footsteps. With a tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, Strike often offended those around him and garnered a negative reputation. After being put in charge of the Ganymede, he soon lost his position after abandoning his station to rescue colonists who were not in danger. As well, he accused a Martian Ambassador of being a spy at a respectable ball. Admiral Gorman soon demoted him, and he became the commander of the Aphrodite. At first, Strike was not a fan. He sees her as ugly, fat, and cantankerous. He misses the Ganymede, a shiny and new rocketship, and views the Aphrodite as less-than. Within the first week of flying her, the Aphrodite had a burned steering tube, which made it necessary to go into free-fall as the damage control party made repairs. Strike’s faith in Lover-Girl continued to plummet. However, after Lieutenant Hendricks, the resident engineer, got her hands on the Aphrodite, Strike’s opinion started to change. Her knowledge of the ship, engineering, and piloting helped him gain confidence in both her abilities and those of Aphrodite.Near the end of the story, the Aphrodite is tasked with rescuing two ships that are falling into the sun. Previously Lieutenant Hendricks had fixed up the surge-circuit rheostat, and so she offered it up as the only solution. Strike agrees to try it, which shows his faith and trust in the Aphrodite. Luckily, all things go to plan, and the Aphrodite, with Strike piloting, is able to save the two ships and Admiral Gorman. After Strike won a medal himself, finally following in the family footsteps, he is offered his old position back on the Ganymede. He refuses, and instead returns to old Lover-Girl. He has grown fond of her over the course of their adventure, and they develop a partnership.

<s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s>

Jinx Ship to the Rescue by Alfred Coppel, Jr. takes place in space, but more specifically in the Aphrodite. It starts in the muddy Venusport Base on Venus. Venusport is famous for its warm, slimy, and green rain that falls for 480 hours of every day. A fog rolls in and degrades visibility. Despite starting on Venusport Base, the characters actually spend most of their time onboard the Aphrodite, a Tellurian Rocket Ship. The Aphrodite had a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built into her frame. She was bulky, fat, and ugly, and occasionally had some technical and mechanical struggles as well. Although her frame may not be appealing, she soon becomes victorious as she gains the trust of Strike and other members of his crew and saves two fallen dreadnaughts. With her surge-circuit rheostat rebuilt, the Aphrodite is finally able to accomplish what she was always meant to.

<s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s>

Strike is a member of an esteemed service family on Venus; seven generations of well-behaved and well-trained operators. Unfortunately, Strike struggles to carry on the family tradition, and is known for misspeaking and offending those around him. By trusting his gut, he wound up failing his higher-ups and crew several times. All this culminated in an eventual mistrust of Strike, which led to him being charged with the Aphrodite. His deep hatred of Space Admiral Gordon is passionate, but not without reason. Gordon is the one who demoted him to the Aphrodite. At the start, Strike is checking out his new vessel and notes how ugly the ship is. After examining the ship and it’s crew, it is revealed that Strike is uncomfortable around women and believes they don’t belong on a spaceship. In order to start flying, he calls in an expert engineer to come aboard and travel with them. Thinking I.V. Hendricks is a man, he is excited to have them onboard. But when Ivy Hendricks shows up, a female engineer and the daughter of the Aphrodite’s creator, his world is soon turned upside down. His initial negative reaction to her is soon displaced by begrudging appreciation and eventually trust and friendship. Hendricks proves his previous theories about women wrong, and Strike is forced to accept that perhaps women do belong on a spaceship. She especially impresses him with her total knowledge of spaceship engineering and the Aphrodite in general. And it helped that she hated Admiral Gorman just as much as Strike, if not more. While flying by the sun to deliver mail, the Aphrodite receives a distress call from two ships: the Lachesis and the Atropos, the latter of which carried Admiral Gorman onboard. After the Aphrodite reached orbit, the Lachesis reached out and reported the Atropos was falling into the sun, due to a burst chamber. They couldn’t move those onboard over thanks to all the radiation, so the Lachesis was attempting to pull the Atropos back using an unbreakable cord. But it wasn’t enough. Since Ivy Hendricks had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat--the feature that crashed the original Aphrodite--, they were able to save the Lachesis and the Atropos and regain some of their dignity and former glory. Strike is awarded the Spatial Cross, as well as Cob, his friend and longtime executive of the Aphrodite. Strike was asked to return to the Ganymede, a beautiful sleek ship, but allegedly said the wrong thing to Gorman, and was instead sent back to the Aphrodite. Cob believes he did it on purpose, as Strike had grown quite fond of Lover-Girl. Ivy has gone to the Bureau of Ships to engineer vessels, a great upgrade from her previous job. Cob pressures Strike to reach out to her, but he refuses. However, it ends on a hopeful note, with the potential for romance between Strike and Hendricks, and even more adventures on the clunky Aphrodite.

<s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s>

Syme Rector is the most-wanted raider in the Triplanet Patrol system and wants access to the ancient Martian city of Kal-Jmar so that he can steal the priceless objects located there. The city has been abandoned for thousands of years, but no human has been able to enter it. Rector crashed his ship in the Mare Cimmerium and left a false trail for authorities to divert them from following him to Lillis, where he plans to obtain a spaceman’s identity card. This card will enable him to ship out on a freighter flight after he has obtained his stolen goods. Rector follows a young patrolman until he catches him unaware on the observation deck of the Founders’ Tower. Rector shoots him in the chest, steals his wallet, and throws his body over the parapet. However, a hook on the patrolman’s uniform catches Rector, pulling Rector over the parapet. He manages to unhook himself, and just as he estimates he can hold on one minute longer, a man comes and pulls him up. The man is Harold Tate, and he invites Rector to have a drink with him. As they get drunk, Tate confides to Rector that he needs a guide to take him to Kal-Jmar; he has discovered a way to enter the dome surrounding the city. The two men set out on their journey and follow a gully they reach. While they are in the lower part, Tate sees something overhead, and a boulder crashes down just to the left of their sand car. A horde of Martians surrounds them and forces the two men to go with them. The leader reveals that the Martians are telepathic and have no need for a spoken language. The Martians want nothing to do with the humans because there is nothing to gain from the humans. The leader tells the men the history of the two species of Martians but says they will kill the men.When the leader pulls his gun on Tate, Rector launches himself against the leader and wrestles away his gun. He shoots the leader and the other Martians as he dodges their shots. The two men then begin walking toward Kal-Jmar and reach the city. Tate uses his device to create a hole in the dome but realizes it isn’t strong enough. Then he thinks of using it where a door would have been, and it works. Rector shoots Tate, and just before he dies, Tate warns him, “You’ll be--sorry.” Rector takes the device and enters the city, noting all the treasures he can steal. He realizes he is hungry and takes two food tablets, but they don’t satisfy him. Then a lifelike robot that is a feeding machine enters and approaches Rector. Rector is startled and opens his mouth, and the robot shoots a feeding tube into Rector’s throat and pours xopa juice into him. The juice is poisonous to humans, and Rector dies immediately. The doorway to Kal-Jmar closes.

<s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s>

The setting of the story is on Mars. It begins in the city of Lillis, which is covered with a translucent steelite dome and is guarded by the Triplanet Patrol. One outstanding feature of the city is its Founders’ Tower, which is the tallest building in Lillis. On the top level, there is an observation deck that looks out over the city. Outside the city is an area called the Mare Cimmerium. The planet has red dust and supports some life, specifically lichens and tumble-grass. It has mountains, canyons, gullies, and deserts.The ancient city of Kal-Jmar features prominently in the story. It is an ancient city of the Martian race that was very advanced but is now abandoned. There are machines, records, and other objects left behind, and all are perfectly preserved inside a bubble-like dome that is formed by a force field. Humans have tried to enter the dome using explosives, diamond drills, and even tunnels under the city, but nothing they have tried has penetrated the dome. When Mars was first being conquered, humans tried to get into the city, but their efforts resulted in bloody battles with the current Martians, so eventually, the Mars Protectorate forbade any Earthmen from going near Kal-Jmar. The city has elaborate architecture and features a pair of twin towers. When Rector enters the city, he notices there is no dust, and the air is breathable. Doors open and close automatically. The room Rector enters has platinum ornaments set in the walls and the furniture. As Tate and Rector travel toward Kal-Jmar in their sand car outside of Lillis, they note that Mars has a deceptively low horizon. The surface contains a series of dunes, channels, and gullies that they have to cross. The gully they follow is extremely deep and steep, and from the bottom, they can only see a small section of the sky. When the Martians take Tate and Rector to their cavern, it is approximately nine kilometers below the gully they were in. There is a sense of moisture in the tunnel they take to the Martians’ cavern. In the cavern, the walls are covered with a phosphorescent glowing fungus, and there is air, although not enough for the humans to use. Some of the Martians eat the fungus.

<s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s>

Harold Tate is a physicist who has developed a way to create an opening in the force field dome covering the ancient city of Kal-Jmar. Other humans have tried to enter, but none have succeeded. They have not been able to breach the force field, and efforts to do so led to bloody uprisings of current Martians, so the Mars Protectorate has forbidden any Earthmen to go there. Tate happens to be on the observation deck of the Founders’ Tower when Syme Rector is trying to pull himself back over the parapet after getting pulled over it by the patrolman’s body that he threw over the side. Tate invites Rector to have a drink with him, and when he is drunk, he tells Rector he trusts him because he has an honest face. Tate asks Rector to be his guide to Kal-Jmar and tells him about the device he invented. Tate sees the boulder that the Martians lob toward their sand car when they are in the gully and saves their lives by using a steering level to flip the car around and out of the main path of the boulder.When the Martians take the two men to their subterranean cavern and reveal that they can speak Terrestrial, Tate asks the leader many questions about the Martians. When the leader of the Martians starts to shoot him, Rector saves Tate by hitting the Martian, wrestling his gun away, and shooting the rest of the Martians while Tate cowers against the wall. When they reach Kal-Jmar, Tate uses his device to open the force field, but then Rector shoots him. As he is dying, Tate warns Rector that he will be sorry.

<s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s>

Rector carries a pistol that, when shot, is silent. This enables him to shoot the young patrolman without drawing attention to himself or making people aware that there has been a shooting. In the sand car, Rector relies on the car’s metal arm and thick wire cable to travel down into the gully. He has harpoon guns that he and Tate can use later if they need to climb back out of the gully. After Rector battles with the Martians and shoots them, he uses a tube of sealing liquid that he carries in his emergency kit to seal the tear in his suit so that he stops losing oxygen. He also uses the sealant to close the wound in his leg from the graze of one of the Benson guns the Martians fired at him. Rector and Tate use oxygen tanks and space suits in their journey to Kal-Jmar because there is not enough air for them to breathe without these items. When he is hungry, Rector takes two food tablets that he carries in his helmet.

<s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s>

From the humans' perspective, the Martians are strange, unpredictable beings. They eat sand to get their oxygen, and lichens, fungi, and tumble-grass from the deserts, all of which contain substances like arsenic that are deadly poisons to humans. The humans believe the Martians cannot or will not learn their language, Terrestrial, and that they have their own language. In it, every word can have multiple meanings depending on the inflection used by the speaker. In truth, the Martians have been telepathic for several thousand years because the planet is practically airless. They are clever and only pretend not to understand Terrestrial, and they make up their complicated language to deceive the humans. Martians want no contact with humans because the Martians have nothing to gain from contact with them. They see the humans as imperialistic. They plan to kill Rector and Tate as part of their concept of justice. The Martians know that Kal-Jmar holds the secret that would make Mars have an Earthlike atmosphere within fifty years. The ancient Kal-Jmar Martians were the contemporaries of the current Martians' ancestors. When the atmosphere of Mars began thinning several thousand years earlier, the Kal-Jmar Martians sealed themselves in their dome where they died of plague and other causes, while the other Martians adapted to the change. The Martians look like they have six legs but really have four legs and two arms. Their torsos bulge because they have a huge air bladder. They look a bit like dogs but have high foreheads and lips that are not split. They are covered with patches of black and white fur; with their muscles, they can control the patches so that they are primarily black or white, depending on the temperature. They can use weapons and are armed with spears and Benson guns when they confront Rector and Tate.

<s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s>

The story begins with Consul Passwyn giving an assignment in a sealed envelope to Vice-Consul Retief, who is a diplomat with the Embassy. His mission is to visit the planet of Adobe and broker a land treaty between the Terrestrial settlers and an invading species, the Jaq. Before Retief leaves, Passwyn stresses the importance of following his orders exactly as written and acknowledges that no one from the Embassy has visited Adobe before, nor do they know the characteristics of the Jaq. Retief gets a ride to Adobe on a mail carrier with the help of a veteran pilot. When the pilot discovers they are entering the planet in the midst of war, he decides to leave on a lifeboat and gives control of the skiff to Retief. Then, Retief crash lands the skiff in order to avoid being blown up by a fission missile that was tracking him on his course. He lands in the middle of an Adoban oasis and immediately encounters a Terrestrial man named Potter, who confuses him for the cousin of one of his associates, Lemuel. Potter tells Retief about his group's history with the Jaqs, whom he refers to as "Flap-jacks" due to their wide, flat, tentacled bodies. Along with a team of settlers including Swazey, Lemuel, and Bert, Potter has been spending his days protecting his farms against attacks by the Jaqs after they mistakenly killed one three months prior, having mistaken it for one of the native species. Potter and his team do not trust the Embassy, having heard they are sending a representative to tell them to ceded control of the oases to the Jaqs. When they discover Retief is not Lemuel's cousin, Lemuel confronts Retief, who swiftly establishes his authority by knocking him out cold. When the group senses a Jaq nearby, Retief insists on dealing with the issue by himself. He hunts down the Jaq, they wrestle, and he assumes control by pressing his thumb against the Jaq’s eye hole. The captive Jaq leads Retief to the Jaq headquarters, where he is introduced to their leader, Hoshick. Retief discovers the affability of the species and particularly their penchant for proper sportsmanship. He uses this knowledge to his advantage, and convinces Hoshick that it would be more sportsmanlike to abandon the war efforts and solve their differences through a simple wrestling match. Once again, he wins the match by squeezing his thumb against Hoshick’s eye hole, and he convinces Hoshick to agree to cede control of the entirety of the oases to the Terrestrials and his people would be gifted all of the planets’ desert areas. Upon returning to the Embassy, Retief tells Consul Passwyn the good news and then burns the envelope Passwyn had given him at the beginning of the story.

<s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s>

The Jaq are a flat, wide-bodied species with tentacles and a tender orifice at the center of their bodies where a human chest would normally be. They are led by Hoshick, who has a strong interest in mining the deserts of Adobe for a special lichen used to craft their yellow wine. This wine would then be sold to planets across the universe. The Jaq make their headquarters in the desert. In the scattered oases of Adobe, the Terrestrial settlers have built farms in the rich soil of the planet's surface. The Terrestrials refer to the Jaq as "Flap-jacks" due to their unique physicality. One day, a Terrestrial man mistakes a Jaq for one of Adobe's native species, and he shoots and kills it. This ignites a war between the two groups. The central Terrestrials featured in the story--Potter, Lemuel, Bert, and Swazey--require assistance from their allies on Ivory because they only have three hundred men and are unsure they can defeat the Jaq. When the Embassy sends Retief to serve as an intermediary, he discovers that the two groups have similar interests--they each only want control of their separate areas. By craftily suggesting the use of weapons is no longer fashionable, Retief neutralizes the Jaq artillery and is able to convince both groups to reach a peace treaty. And, as it turns out, the Terrestrial settlements no longer have wine, so the adjacent existence of Jaq wine fields would have a mutual benefit.

<s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s>

The story begins on the planet of Ivory, where Retief meets with his superior, Consul Passwyn. This seems to be the headquarters of the CDT, a kind of intergalactic governing body concerned with diplomatic efforts. The majority of the story's action takes place on the planet of Adobe. The planet is covered with vast deserts and spotted with several oases. The oases are like jungles with hot air, dense foliage, and dwarf trees along with a variety of wildlife from lizards to insects. They used to be sea-beds and therefore have rich soil for planting. The Terrestrials settlers live and built farms there. The Jaq built their headquarters in the midst of the deserts, where they prefer to stay for their rich resource of lichen used to produce wine. When Retief crash-lands on Adobe, he meets the Terrestrials in an oasis and eventually crosses over into the desert when he goes to consult with the leader of the Jaq, Hoshick. The Jaq headquarters is a comfort-dome with red lights, granite tables, fine silverware and glassware, pink walls, and a low-lying ceiling. Retief meets with Hoshick here and convinces him to engage in a skirmish. He then fights and defeats the leader outside the headquarters in the bright sand. After securing the deal, Retief returns to Ivory to report on the success of his mission.

<s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s>

Wine is the essential reason the Jaq came to Adobe in the first place. Their leader, Hoshick, envisioned sourcing its vast deserts for lichen. This lichen would then be used to produce a yellow wine that could be sold to planets all around the universe. When Retief first meets Hoshick, the Jaq leader provides him with a rose-crystal drinking-tube, from which they are able to sample this wine. Retief notes that the wine tastes delicious and smells good and reminds him of Chateau d'Yquem. This detail reveals the Jaq's interest in the finer things in life, in appearing distinguished. This interest is reflected in all of the Jaq's interactions with Retief, including his ability to be coerced into hand-to-hand combat because he deems it a more modern, sportsmanlike way of resolving issues. Wine again becomes important after Retief wins the fight and gets Hoshick to agree to the terms of his proposed land treaty with the Terrestrials. After Hoshick agrees, Retief attempts to convince the Terrestrials to agree as well. After learning of the lack of wine within their settlements, Retief lets the Terrestrials sample the wine provided to him by the Jaq. Eventually, the Terrestrials agree to the arrangement as well. Therefore, the wine is also a symbol of the newfound peace between the two previously warring groups.

<s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s>

After Retief takes command of the mail skiff, he narrowly misses colliding with a warhead that tracks his trajectory. Thanks to a swift maneuver, Retief is able to dodge its impact and crash-lands on Adobe. However, due to the red blip on his radar screen, Retief is now aware that one of the warring groups on the planet is using illegal fission weapons in battle. Initially, he believes the Terrestrials were responsible for this, but after meeting Potter, he realizes his mistake. Potter informs him the Terrestrials do not have weapons of that kind, so it has to be Jaq weaponry. This information becomes important later when Retief meets Hoshick for the first time. As the leader of the Jaq, Hoshick informs Retief that the skirmishes were a result of a desire to engage in more sportsmanlike conduct on the battlefield. Retief realizes he can use this desire to his advantage and pushes Hoshick to question whether or not weapons are required at all in resolving conflict. He pushes this idea further by suggesting his own kind would never solve problems with weapons, despite one of the Jaqs having been previously shot down by them. Retief excuses this by again playing into Hoshick's desire to appear more dignified and saying the shooting was a failure to recognize the Jaq as sportsmen. This tactic works, and he is able to use it to convince Hoshick to engage in hand-to-hand combat, which eventually leads to the resolution of the war.

<s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s>

Ambassador Nitworth, the local head of the government for the Terrestrials, has received an ultimatum from a species called the Qornt. The Qornt want to take over the planet that the Terrestrials currently occupy. This is surprising because the whereabouts of the Qornt have been unknown for the past two centuries. The Ambassador orders Second Secretary Magnan to travel to Roolit I, the planet where the Qornt are now, to investigate the situation in person. Retief is sent to go with Magnan, with orders from the Ambassador to avoid Magnan from doing anything impulsive. When they arrive, Retief wants to investigate the situation on the surface, whereas Magnan would have been happy to take one look and return to his office. As Retief is insisting on taking a look, the two men are spotted by two eight-foot-tall creatures and a skirmish starts. After Retief pulls Magnan from the fight, and some bickering takes place, the men learn that these two creatures are Verpp, not Qornt. They ask if they know about the Ultimatum sent to the Ambassador—the men call the outer planet Smorbrod, but those on Roolit I call it Guzzum. Zubb and Slun (the Verpp) say that they aren’t caught up on political matters, so they don’t have anything to say about the upcoming invasion, but they do give the men information about where they are. Tarroon is the town they are closest to, where there are 15-20 Qornt, and Zubb and Slun say that the Qornt would mostly ignore Terrestrials, which makes Retief think they should walk right in. Magnan is afraid of a trap, but they head into the underground Qornt village. Once they make it to Qornt Hall, the group walks through a tunnel into a huge room with high ceilings, where the walls are plastered with weapons and other spoils of battle. It was a trap: the Verpp walk the men into the dining hall where the Qornt are having a feast, hoping that the Qornt would be mad at the men for interfering with the Verpp. It turns out the Qornt are even larger than the Verpp (twelve feet tall), and Qorn (the lead Qornt) is insistent that there will be no peace, because he is hungry for battle, so he ties up the men. Retief threatens them saying the Terrestrials intended to use Roolit I to test a bomb, and breaks out of his chains in the chaos—the differences in gravity between the planets means that the men are very strong, even if they are much smaller than the Verpp and Qornt. Retief ties up Qorn and declares himself the new leader. The Qornt explain that Verpp molt into Qornt after a few other stages of metamorphosis, and that the Qornt are very driven by a need for battle. Upon return to the outer planet, we learn that Retief has supposedly recruited the Qornt for the Peace Enforcement Corps, and sends them out to battle, circumventing Nitworth’s authority.

<s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s>

Magnan and Retief are the men selected to go to the planet where the Qornt are based in order to investigate. Although Magnan was the first person assigned to the job, he is less comfortable out in the field compared to Retief, who ends up making most of the decisions. There is a tension here as they continue their adventure, with Magnan being scared and Retief encouraging him forward, and Retief saving Magnan when he is pinned by the Verpp. Magnan is the one who is explicitly a diplomat, but Retief takes over most conversations—not only does he push the mission forward and insist on following the Verpp to the Qornt, but he eventually declares himself leader of the Qornt. Even when Ambassador Nitworth demands information from Magnan near the end, it is Retief who responds—he wants the Ambassador to know that he is the one calling the shots, even if it has been behind the scenes. It’s clear that Magnan has either not understood this, as if he were being tricked, or he is just not good at giving credit where credit is due, because he refers to the plan as his own recruiting scheme, correcting himself to say it was a group effort, even though it was all Retief’s idea. At the very end of the story, Retief complies to all of Magnan’s requests in an uncharacteristic way—the interpretation is left open, but there is a possibility Retief is hiding something and intends to return as a military leader with the Qornt and perhaps attack the Terrestrials.

<s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s>

Second Secretary Magnan was selected by Ambassador Nitworth to travel to Roolit I to investigate the Qornt. Magnan does not have much field experience and is surprised by this assignment, and had been trying to get out of doing anything related to the Qornt issue when it was handed to him. He resigns himself to the task and Retief is assigned to go along with him. When they get to the planet, Magnan is clearly anxious—he remarks on the quality of the view and states his intent to head back to finish the mission, but Retief doesn’t let him give up so early. When the men are spotted by some creatures, and he tries to run for help, he is instead jumped by the creatures and Retief has to tear him free. This gives Magnan some confidence, and has a much more arrogant attitude towards the Verpp. He flaunts his title as diplomat and tries to assert as much dominance as he can. Once he learns that these are Verpp and not Qornt, he is preoccupied by the confusing details of the story: how many Qornt there are, and things like that. Once the group starts towards the Qornt’s village, however, he becomes nervous again, no longer with the upper hand. He is not sure if he is walking into a trap, and becomes more and more nervous until the trap is revealed. Once at gunpoint standing in front of the Qornt, however, he has enough confidence to pry at the division between the Qornt who want war and those who aren’t sold on the idea yet. Once Retief threatens the Qornt and a fight commences, Magnan still tries to talk his way out of Zubb shooting the men, gains confidence again, and insists on taking the guns. Once Qorn has been tied up, Magnan suggests putting the Verpp in charge, and asks the Qornt if there are alternatives to militaristic life that they would consider. Eventually they all make it back to where the story started, and he seems more passive again, until the Ambassador is on board with Retief’s plan, and Magnan starts ordering Retief around again, though Retief’s behavior has shifted in response.

<s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s>

Because they Qornt have been underground for two centuries while they molted from the Verpp stage of their life cycle, they have gone undetected by the Terrestrials in this time. This led the Terrestrials to believe that the Qornt possessed superior technology of some kind, as they seemed to have reappeared out of nowhere. However, this is not the case, and it was merely that the group remained dormant for a long time. There are rumors of stealth technology and superior ships, including a superdrive, but not much firsthand information until Magnan and Retief make it to the surface of Roolit I, the planet that the Qornt are currently occupying. It is true that the Verpp and Qornt are physically larger than the Terrestrials, but the systems of gravity on the different planets means that the smaller Terrestrials are actually stronger and have a kind of advantage on Roolit I. The Verpp tell Magnan that the Qornt have huge, powerful warships that have a variety of weapon types. Not only this, but each Qornt has his own ship, which means that there is a large fleet of these. It comes to Magnan as a surprise, then, that the Qornt are not worried about diplomatic negotiation, but instead just seem to have an impulse that drives them to be in battle.

<s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s>

The Qornt is a race of aliens known for their militaristic tendencies that seemed to disappear two centuries ago. They are of particular issue because they have reappeared and written to the Terrestrials saying they would take over the planet that the Terrestrials are on. We eventually learn that the Qornt are but one stage in a longer life cycle, in which Gwil become Boog, who become Rheuk, who become Verpp, who eventually become Qornt after the two hundred year estivation period. It is only in this stage that they become antagonistic and warlike, but they do not know what happens after this stage because Qornt are expected to die in battle, and none have survived long enough to know what happens. The Qornt themselves are twelve feet tall and troll-like, with very bushy fur, huge eyes, and beaks. They are very comfortable with their militaristic traditions—when we meet them, they are in the midst of a large feast that they partake in before going to war. They boast the spoils of battle on display in their great hall, and wear intricate headdresses to show their power. After a skirmish with the men on Roolit I, in which Qorn (the lead Qornt) is replaced in power by Retief, they eventually make it to the outer planets where they have presumably been recruited into the Peace Enforcement Corps.

<s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s>

The story opens with Rodney, Martin and Wass landing on a foreign planet and overlooking an abandoned metal city where the inhabitants supposedly died more than a million years ago. They had thirteen hours to explore before they must return to their mother ship.They notice a metal rim at the perimeter of the city that they must step over to enter, and continue in to explore. Wass must return to their “lifeboat” spaceship to get a camera, but is unable to exit the city as the metal band they noticed coming in has turned into a dome-shaped shield over the entire city. They suspect it may be a radiation shield, and are suspicious that the wind they saw when landing and their inability to contact their home ship may indicate a tragedy took place as they arrived. They find a control center of sorts with lots of knobs and levers, but do not engage with it for fear of not knowing what might happen. They all find the city somewhat familiar, but have no idea why. They begin looking for where the water of the city comes from, since they may be able to find a way out of the city through its transport corridors. They all begin to start frightening each other with stories and seeing dust and objects move around in the dark. Rodney and Martin enter an underground tunnel through a hatch in the ground and Wass chooses not to follow them and instead leaves to return to the switchboard.As Rodney and Martin discover a grate in the tunnel it begins to open for them. Wass delivers the message on the radio that he was able to do that from the control room, and then something attacks and kills him. Rodney and Martin escape to the outside of the dome to where others from their crew have come to their rescue. It is unclear whether Rodney and Martin ultimately live after they exit the tunnel.

<s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s>

Wass is an equal part of the exploration party with Rodney and Martin until he has had enough and parts ways with them when they enter an underground passageway filled with dust. Wass instead returns to the switchboard and pulls a series of levers that allows Rodney and Martin to escape from the city through the underground tunnels - saving their lives. Wass ultimately dies at the switchboard, though it is not clear what kills him.

<s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on the surface of a planet that has an abandoned city made of metal. The city is spooky and the inhabitants supposedly died over a million years ago. However, they see things moving strangely while they are in the city suggesting it is inhabited, and something kills Wass within the city during the story.They explore the metal streets of the city, a room with a large switchboard, and seven levels underground. Rodney and Martin explore an underground tunnel that eventually leads them out of the city and to the safety of their fellow crew.

<s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s>

They are bound by a sense of duty to the mission. However, when they are put in the predicament of being trapped under the dome, their bond begins to fray and they start fighting with each other about the best means of escape.Rodney and Martin squabble, but both stick together in exploring an underground tunnel filled with dust while Wass elects to go his own way. Wass ultimately appears to sacrifice his life to save Rodney and Martin by returning to the switchboard and opening a grate that allows them to escape from the city.

<s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s>

Choosing to search underground for where water might enter and exit the city was an important step for them to find the tunnel that led to their escape. However, Wass’ pulling levers at the switchboard was critical to opening the grate inside the tunnel that actually allowed them to leave. Otherwise, they did not have tools with them that would have likely allowed them to escape in time.If Martin had not forced the team to join together when they were fighting over the control panel the first time, they likely may have never escaped as well.

<s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Asa Graybar is a biological engineer who studies keeping Slider eggs alive and he is accused of a crime at the opening of the story. He thinks he was framed by Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne’s general manager.He was offered one year as a “changeling” on another planet or 5 years in rehabilitation on Earth. He elects to do the one year, and thinks that he will get into smuggling Slider eggs on Jordan’s planet. Being a changeling is not a highly sought after line of work, but it pays well, and the people who do it have organs and body parts regenerated to better suit specialized tasks.Asa travels to Jordan’s planet on a spaceship with a cellmate, Kershaw, who got caught stealing a Slider egg and is returning to serve more time. When they arrive they are both “converted” into muck men, with the forms of frogs and scaly, pink skin. Their task is to collect Slider eggs and bring them back to the base which is watched over by a warden, Furston.Asa and Kershaw go out together for the first time into the mud so Kershaw can teach Asa how to find Slider eggs. They find one, and are immediately attacked by a Slider that disables one of Kershaw’s legs. Kershaw calls for helicopters to come get them. Tom Dorr is operating the helicopter that comes to collect Kershaw in the field, and demands that Asa also give him the egg they found. Asa refuses to ensure his own safety that they would come back to get him as soon as they dropped off Kershaw.Back at the base Tom Dorr refuses to go back into the field to rescue Asa and gets into an argument with Harriet Hazeltyne (taking over charge of all operations for her father), and storms off. Harriet goes into the field to save Asa herself, but accidentally crashes the helicopter because she is not used to the double force of gravity. Asa is unable to right the helicopter, and they think it is unlikely they will be able to use its machine guns to keep them safe while the Sliders come to feed on the dead Slider they are near to in the night. They must get back to the base somehow, and the story ends with them contemplating how they might do this.

<s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story opens on Earth and then travels to Jordan’s planet.Jordan’s planet is the place where Asa goes as a changeling to be a muck man. There is a base on Jordan's planet which has a laboratory for converting prisoners into muck men, living quarters and kitchen, and a courtyard with high walls to keep the Sliders out. The surface of the planet is mud and the force of gravity is twice that on Earth. Asa's conversion into a frog-like person is necessary to survive there.

<s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Asa thinks Tom framed him for the crime at the opening of the story. Tom is present on Jordan’s planet when Asa arrives to begin his one year term as a muck man. Tom is providing a tour of Jordan’s planet to Harriet Hazeltyne, who is taking over her father’s operations and wants to investigate how Toms is running things. Tom and Harriet get into an argument on Jordan’s planet and Tom leaves in anger. It is unclear what his final fate is after leaving, though it is likely he will be removed from his post.

<s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

They meet as cellmates on their way to Jordan’s planet to convert to muck men. They convert into frog-like forms together. Kershaw is assigned to pick up where he left off as a return prisoner and Asa is taught how to operate in his new body.Kershaw teaches Asa the ropes of how to collect slider eggs as a muck man. One muck man is killed for about every 6 Slider eggs that are found, and it is extremely dangerous. During their first time out they have to fight a Slider and Kershaw breaks his leg, relying on Asa to save him. This task bonds them together as they must trust each other with their lives.

<s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Slider egg is a captivating object that has a clear shell, and light of various colors flash inside it. They are laid by Sliders on Jordan’s planet and are collected by prisoners that are stationed there. The eggs only live for about 4 years, which makes them in demand. If they could be stabilized to live longer they would be even more valuable.Their use is never discussed and the people in the story do not reveal why they are so valuable. Asa is working on a method to keep the eggs alive for longer at the opening of the story, but does not continue in that task during the plot.

<s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

As the story opens, Retief, the Minister to Flamme, is meeting with other members of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne, including Under-Secretary Sternwheeler and Deputy Under-Secretary Magnan. The men discuss Retief’s plan to visit Flamme in person to deal with the growing conflict between the Boyars, who have been living on Flamme for sixty years, and the Aga Kagans. The latter recently arrived on Flamme and began taking over land that the Boyars are farming. The Aga Kagans appear to be goat herders, living in tents and allowing their goats to graze on land that the Boyars use for crops, but in reality, the Aga Kagans have weapons, including 40 mm infinite repeaters and rocket launchers. Retief wants to offer the Boyars the support of the Corps, but Sternwheeler will only go so far as to authorize a “stiffly worded Protest Note.” With foresight, Retief has already drafted a note because he anticipated the Corps would respond with paperwork rather than action. Retief travels to Flamme and meets with Georges Duror, the Boyar Chef d’Regime. Georges indicates that he has been holding back his men who want to attack the Aga Kagans for taking their land, and Retief reminds Georges that if the Boyars act without backing from the Corps, they are likely to be destroyed. Retief also tells Georges that the goats and tents are just for show; the Aga Kagans have a modern navy and bullet-proof cloaks, and on their home planet, they travel via modern helis and ground cars. Georges seems discouraged by this news, but Retief reminds him he has the Note and asks him to give diplomacy a chance. Retief and Georges travel to meet with the head of the Aga Kagans to deliver the Note. On the way, Georges points out the progress that the Boyars have made on Flamme. They stop their air-car when Georges sees a herd of goats in a grain field, and three Aga Kagan horsemen confront them. Retief asks them to take him and Georges to their leader, and they do. Retief introduces Georges as from the Planetary government to the leader, Stanley, and offers to read the Note. He begins with a series of titles until Stanley tells him to skip them. Retief flips two pages and begins a long, legalistic description of relocated people until Stanley cuts him off. Stanley says the Boyars will be accused of imperialism if they attack the Aga Kagans but offers to allow the Boyars to stay until they can make other arrangements. Stanley reveals that the Aga Kagans are slowly creating an empire, and he expects the Corps won’t do anything about it. Georges and Stanley exchange heated insults.

<s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The two men have dealt with each other prior to the events in the story; Retief addresses Georges by his first name, so they know each other fairly well. However, Retief’s position is higher than Georges’s position. Retief works for the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne; Georges works for the Planetary government. Retief knows information about the Aga Kagans that Georges doesn’t know, such as the fact that they are armed, have bulletproof cloaks, and have modern technology on their home planet. He has advised Georges about handling the situation with the Aga Kagans, urging him to prevent the Boyars from attacking the Aga Kagans, and Georges trusts Retief to secure assistance for them. Retief is sympathetic to the Boyars and their situation, trying to persuade Under-Secretary Sternwheeler to support them. When Retief tells Georges that he will personally deliver the Note to the Aga Kagans, Georges wants to help Retief and volunteers to go with him; Retief agrees. It is Retief who develops the plan for handling the Aga Kagans. Georges is impulsive, which leads Retief to keep watch on him. When they encounter the goats in the grain field, Retief has to convince Georges not to hurt the animals, and when the horsemen ride through the grain, Retief has to hold him back again. Retief is calmer in stressful situations and reminds Georges of their strategy: to make their flattery sound like insults and their insults sound like flattery. Georges seems unsure of himself and comments that he should have learned more about their habits before accompanying Retief. Retief has to translate what the Aga Kagans say for Georges in order for him to know what is going on. When the two men meet with Stanley, Retief maintains his calm demeanor, while Georges loses his temper.

<s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story’s beginning takes place at the headquarters for the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne where Retief works, but the rest of the story takes place on the planet Flamme. Sixty years earlier, the Boyars settled on Flamme and set about making it suitable for farming by clearing the jungle, descumming the seas, irrigating the deserts, and setting out forests. For sixty years, the Boyars inhabited the planet by themselves, with only the saurian wildlife presenting a danger to them. Flamme is now a thriving planet. It has a Government House with comfortable lounge furniture, waiters in white jackets, colorful flowers, a lake, a lawn, and colorful flowerbeds. It also has beautiful sunsets. Outside the capital, there are rolling hills of granite. Flamme’s main industry seems to be agriculture; fifty years ago they had bare rock, but they bred special strains of bacteria that broke the rock down to soil where they raised legumes and then grains. The Boyars also have oyster breeding beds. There are roads, although they have pot-holes, and air-cars for transportation. The Aga Kaban headquarters is a large black tent featuring air conditioning and a pennant featuring a lion “couchant in crimson on a field verte.” It has the smell of incense, and someone is playing stringed instruments inside. There are colorful decorations in gold, blue, silver, and green. The Aga Kaba are accustomed to the finer things in life; Stanley even blows his nose on silk cloth. Their foods include grapes, oranges, and bananas, and their beverages include whiskey. Everything about the Aga Kaba’s leader’s tent suggests wealth and luxury.

<s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The history of Flamme itself is of great relevance to its value to both the Boyars and the Aga Kagans. When the Boyars settled the planet sixty years ago, it was habitable but unable to support much agriculture. They have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, clearing jungles, descumming seas, irrigating deserts, and planting forests. Fifty years ago, the Boyars learned how to breed a special strain of bacteria that breaks down the granite that covered much of the surface. The granite breaks down to soil, and the Boyars add broad-spectrum fertilizer to make the land arable. The Boyars now have many fields of crops and are continuing to develop new sections for more. Their many years of intensive work in creating farming land and growing crops gives them a vested interest in their settlement.The Aga Kagans are involved in empire-building. They have sent what appear to be goat herders and fishermen to Flamme to begin taking over the land. The goat herders are all male and have rocket launchers. They present a false appearance as homesteaders who lack access to modern technology; in reality, their tents are high-polymer plastic, and their robes are bullet-proof. On their home planet, they have helis and ground cars. The homesteaders set up camp in the middle of farm fields, allow their goats to graze on the crops, and cook their sheep’s brains over dung fires. The fishermen are actually the Aga Kagan navy who come equipped with 40 mm infinite repeaters. The CDT knows that the Aga Kagans have been using this same method of invasion for the past five years in six other worlds. The Aga Kagans hide their modern technology in the places they are invading to dupe the people they are intruding on and to please the older conservatives in their government. The Aga Kagans’ approach to empire-building is based on their knowledge of Earth history. While their society has modern technology, their false appearance of third world trappings can be used to justify their invasions into “more advanced” societies. Stanley admits the Aga Kagans move into an area after others have done the hard work of building the community and civilization so that the Aga Kagans can enjoy the fruits of the others’ labors. By appearing to be a third world civilization, the Aga Kagans can defend their actions and gain empathy with a claim of “legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples.” Stanley also acknowledges his familiarity with empire-builders on Earth and claims he won’t make their mistake of going “too far, too fast.” He couches their approach as “an ancient and honorable custom” and references Mein Kampf, the Communist Manifesto, and Leung’s the Porcelain Wall. Based on the histories of the men behind these works, Stanley knows that the CDT will follow the practice of appeasement and allow the Aga Kagans to make their little land-grabs until they are positioned so that they cannot be stopped.

<s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Aga Kagans are an empire-building society that has been increasing their presence in six other worlds by the time they appear on Flamme. The Aga Kagans send in men disguised as goat herders and fishermen who are actually armed and equipped with modern accessories. The Aga Kagans have a plan to build their empire by invading other worlds following the model of Adolf Hitler, but they plan to avoid his mistake of moving “too far, too fast.” The Aga Kagan leader, Stanley, is well-educated and a manipulator. He plays to the older conservative Aga Kagans by allowing the third-world trappings of goat herders to be used while he actually has disdain for their traditional values, but his charade gives him what he wants. The Aga Kagans wait until an area has done the hard work of building its civilization and becoming sustainable before he moves his men in. Although the CDT is aware of the Aga Kagans’ actions, it wants to avoid warfare and meets the intrusions with diplomacy, but all the while, the Aga Kagans are ensconcing themselves for a permanent takeover of the places where they have intruded.

<s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Peter Matheny is a Martian sociodynamics professor sent to Earth on behalf of the Martian government under the guise of hiring an Earthman who can help manage and improve their export business. Armed with a hundred million dollars, his real mission is to find and enlist the service of a con man who can help the Martians concoct a securities scheme that will net greater profits than their current exports yield (the government hired him because of his experience formulating the Red Ankh Society scheme, which offered to sell bogus wisdom of the Old Martians). Peter is accustomed to the largely-empty deserts of Mars and enjoys the serenity of smoking a pipe while stargazing behind his small home in addition to other quiet hobbies such as reading, playing chess, and collecting minerals. When he arrives on Earth, he feels out of his element and uncomfortable due to the heavy, humid air and massive towers and neon lights he encounters in the crowded city, so he seeks a place where he can sit. He finds a place called "The Church of Choice," where, to his delight, he discovers a number of gambling games in progress despite the ban on such activities on Earth. Because the Martian Constitution specifically allows for gambling, Peter partakes and shoots a successful game of craps. However, he expresses confusion about Earth rules for craps, since the Martian version employs a number of tricks and cheats. After the game, Peter feels uncomfortable again and tries to leave, but he is stopped by a man named Gus Doran, who takes him out for drinks. During their conversation, Peter tells Gus about the struggles of the Martian economy and explains how high Earth taxes and greedy middlemen have cut into the profits from their exports. Over the course of a few more drinks, Peter tells Gus about several frauds the Martians developed in an effort to bolster their economy and accidentally reveals his true intentions for visiting Earth to Gus. This information intrigues Gus who informs Peter that he has contacts that may be able to help. To ensure Peter's trust, Gus uses an oath box and promises not to tell anyone what he learned from Peter that night. Gus then suggests they celebrate by inviting some women to their hotel, and he leaves to make a phone call. He calls his business partner Peri, who is preparing to go on a date with a wealthy marijuana rancher. Gus convinces her to cancel the date and join him at the hotel so that together they can take advantage of Peter's amenability and hustle him out of a million dollars.

<s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

There are several locations where key events in the story take place including Peri's residence, the immigration office, the Earth city, the Church of Choice, Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar & Grill, and the Jupiter-Astoria hotel. In addition, at various points throughout the narrative, Peter recalls life on Mars, which is covered with deserts and scrub thorn and an atmosphere with drier air and lesser gravity compared to Earth's humidity and strong gravitation. Martian society is largely rural with very small towns and villages, and their weeks are different than those on Earth; they have a day called "Tenthday" when Peter likes to play poker with his coworkers, and he sometimes visits a place called Swindletown. Peter often notes the differences between Earth's commercialism and reliance upon automation and Mars' more calm, individualistic society. Peter is overwhelmed by the bright, neon lights, massive towers, and sheer amount of vehicles and people in the city where he arrives on Earth and longs for his small cottage and rock garden back on Mars. To navigate the city, Peter takes cabs, and to access the different levels of the towers, he utilizes the ramp system. Looking for a place to sit, Peter finds The Church of Choice, which seems to be an establishment where people can drink and gamble, although gambling is illegal on Earth. The Church of Choice features craps tables, roulette wheels, and even Bingo and has a large, marble lobby at its entrance that leads into a number of dim rooms with Gothic architecture. After meeting Gus there, the two leave and share drinks at Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar & Grill, a place where diners can talk in private sitting at soundproof booths while enjoying a strip show. The carpeted hotel room he shares with Gus at the Jupiter-Astoria has a pneumatic device that can deliver drinks straight from the bar along with anything else someone may require, such as the oath box Gus uses to cement Peter's trust in him. There is also a bathroom and a "sexy type of furniture" that operates like a massage chair.

<s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Gus is a con artist who works with Peri and Sam Wendt to primarily target wealthy, powerful men and extort money from them. He is short, chisel-faced, has slicked-back hair, and wears blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell cloak, and slippers. When the story begins, Peri is preparing to go on a date with the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc. who is also a wealthy marijuana rancher, supposedly to use him for money. Gus convinces her to change her plans to help him swindle Peter since he has discovered Peter has a hundred million dollars at his disposal and appears to be susceptible to Gus's charming and manipulative ways. Gus goads Peter into confessing his secret by providing him with beer and akvavit and gains his trust by wearing the helmet attached to the oath box. At the end of the story, Gus agrees to help Peter find his confidence man by utilizing his network of underworld contacts, but instead calls Peri to begin implementing his con.

<s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Red Ankh Society is a con devised by Peter for the Martian government as a way to boost their economy. People paid for the exclusive privilege of access to the secrets and ancient wisdom of the Old Martians; in reality, these were just bogus semantics compiled for the sake of earning large amounts of money. However, the existence of the Red Ankh Society reveals quite a bit about Mars, the role of cons in the story, and even Peter himself. During Peter's discussion with Gus, we learn the Martians are descended from Earthmen who preferred greater freedom than was offered by the United Protectorate and moved to Mars to establish a life there. They work to make the planet habitable and attractive to tourists, but the process is slow because they cannot afford the equipment and power plants required to build on a scale that will attract the necessary amount of visitors needed to turn a profit. This leads the government to resort to drastic measures; they wield their skills at playing tricks and cheating at gambling (they even have a city called Swindletown) to implement a number of schemes meant to draw in vast amounts of cash such as the Red Ankh Society, the construction and sale of phony ancient relics and ruins, and the saga of Junie O'Brien (a little girl whose fake illness raised a billion dollars for the planet). This leads the government to send Peter to Earth in order to purchase the services of a con man who can help implement a new scheme to sell Martian securities. This trip introduces Peter to Gus, who begins work on a plan to swindle Peter out of a million dollars.

<s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Peri is Gus Doran's business associate along with someone named Sam Wendt. The three of them operate an enterprise centering on Peri's ability to attract rich and powerful men and swindle them for cash. Peri has golden blonde hair and silver-blue eyes and a light complexion, and she has a private phone number she gives to men involved in the group's schemes. At the beginning of the story, she wears a dinner gown as she prepares to go on a date with a marijuana rancher, who is also the heir apparent to Indonesia, Inc. When she receives a phone call, she changes from her gown into a more casual bathrobe, thinking one of her many suitors is calling her and wants to make him feel special. However, the casualness of the bathrobe is misleading as it is worth thousands of dollars and was given to her by a representative of the Antarctic Enterprise. She even tousles up her coiffed hair to complete the image. When she realizes it is only Gus Doran calling, she grows impatient and drops her facade. On the call with Gus, she learns of his introduction to Peter Matheny, and together they agree on a scheme to extort a million dollars from him. Gus wants to split the cash evenly between the three of them, but Peri insists on fifty percent for her share. She cancels the date with the marijuana rancher and prepares to go meet Gus and Peter at the Jupiter-Astoria.

<s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Jonny Johnson is one of Earth’s foremost scientists, but no one on Venus is supposed to know that. He and another man, Caldwell, have come looking for another human named Martin, and it would be quite dangerous for him and them if anyone knew they were there. Johnson enters a bar known for providing patrons with dreams, and meets a gorgeous and dangerous woman named Vee Vee. Vee Vee attempts to use a tactic known as the Karmer nerve paralysis on Johnson, which he swiftly blocks. They enter the Room of the Dreamer together, even though they don’t trust each other (and Caldwell has tipped off Johnson to watch out for her because she has been asking about Martin). As they enter the room and Johnson and Vee Vee lob threats back and forth, she reveals that she knows who he is but says she will keep his secret. The Dreamer, Unger, enters the room and the dreaming commences. It seems to affect everyone, including Johnson, who sees a spaceship and then is upset that he can’t get it back. He has the odd sensation of different bodily organs speaking to him and trying to convince him what he’s seeing is real as he watches Unger levitate high into the air. Unger falls, hard, and the crowd gets very upset and murmurs suggest a human is at fault. Vee Vee suddenly kisses Johnson, saying she might not be able to later. He is puzzled by this, until he sees that Martin is in the room and the crowd is converging on him. Johnson and Caldwell fire their effective but not fatal zit guns into the crowd as Johnson calls out Vee Vee’s name and Caldwell tells him to forget about her. As the passage ends they are trying to get through the frantic throng of people to reach Martin.

<s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Johnson, whose full name is John Michael Johnson, is described by Vee Vee as one of Earth’s foremost scientists, and an expert in the field of electro-magnetic radiation in human bodies. He is the protagonist of the story, a human man who has apparently come to Venus in search of another human named Martin. He goes to a bar that has a Room of the Dreamer. Before he enters it, he encounters Vee Vee. She incites both lust and anxiety in Johnson, as he is attracted to her but doesn’t think she should be alone at a Venusian bar. After she attempts to use Karmer’s nerve paralysis on him, he blocks her and threatens her not to do it again. They go into the Room of the Dreamer, where Johnson discovers that Vee Vee knows who he is. The Unger enters and the dreaming begins. Johnson sees a spaceship before him and the room seems to disappear behind him. Johnson is upset when the spaceship disappears and he can’t get it back. He sees Unger starting to levitate and all of Johnson’s various body parts seem to talk to him. When Unger falls, Vee Vee kisses Johnson. He is confused and then realizes that Martin is there and is being attacked. As the passage ends, Johnson and Caldwell are shooting people with their zit guns and trying to get toward Martin as Johnson calls out to Vee Vee.

<s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Vee Vee is a woman described as very beautiful, with auburn hair, blue eyes and tanned skin. She wears a low-cut green dress and necklace and seems out of place at the dream bar, but unafraid. She introduces herself to Johnson and gets him to escort her to the Room of the Dreamer, even after Caldwell warns him that she has been asking for Martin. She attempts to use Karmer’s nerve paralysis on Johnson and he blocks it. Johnson says she is a child vampire and brings her into the Room of Dreaming; she says next time she’ll use Eve’s trick against him. She says his name and when he questions her, it turns out that she knows exactly who he is and what he does. She claims to have tried the paralysis trick to see if he would block it so she would know if it was him. Self-assured though she was before, she becomes quite frightened in the Room of the Dreamer. After Unger falls and chaos breaks out, she kisses Johnson and says she did it because she might not be able to later. Though he calls for her as he and Caldwell make their way towards Martin, Vee Vee’s whereabouts are unknown at the end of the passage.

<s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on Venus at an unspecified point in the future. At the very beginning, the setting is outside on a rainy evening. On Venus, the rain falls in all directions, possibly including straight up. Johnson says that everything on Venus feels like it’s coming at him from all directions. He soon enters the club, a perfumed room with loud Venusian music, a bar that Johnson makes his way to, and “feeling states” that hit Johnson immediately; specifically feelings of love and sex designed to entice humans and Venusians. When they enter the Room of the Dreamer, the perfume becomes stronger and the music louder, playing harmonies that seem new to the ear. The room is massive and only semi-illuminated, with many tiered, carpet and pillow-lined ramps circling up from an empty space with only a mat and headrest. It feels pleasantly cool but also slightly damp, and guests are greeted by a strange, tangible energy.

<s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The culture on Venus is complex and futuristic, and seems to cater to both Venusians and humans. Women don’t appear to have a particularly high status. A bar like the one the story takes place in is apparently not safe for unaccompanied women, based on Johnson’s initial reaction to her being there alone; he worries that Earth men might abduct her for sex and that Venusians might kill her to steal her jewelry. When Johnson enters, the head waiter asks if he wants liquor, women, or dreams, implying that sex work or some other transactional use of “women” is at play there. Through its use of “feeling states”, the Venusian nightlife appears to have commodified the emotions that people already possess in an attempt to entice, confuse, and manipulate. The popularity of “dreaming” further shows an emphasis on escape and illusion in this culture. The drinks served also seem as much a visual experience as a drinking experience: the bar seems to want to stimulate all senses.

<s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ferdinand is a young man accompanying his sister Evelyn on a spaceliner called the Eleanor Roosevelt with 300 hundred other women. The final destination of the spaceship is Venus, where the women hope to find a husband. Although women are in charge, the crew of the ship is all men. Ferdinand decides to explore the ship, and he encounters a large red sign forbidding passengers from entering the next deck. Despite being hesitant at first, he decides to break the law anyway because he is technically not a passenger on the ship. Ferdinand is amazed to see the stars, the moon, and another spaceliner take off in space. Unfazed by the next sign that tells unauthorized personnel to leave, he goes to the porthole and tries to figure out a way to open it by trying various methods. Suddenly, the door opens, and a large man plucks him inside by the throat. The man recognizes him as a brother to one of the Anura, which he defines as a herd of women looking for mates. Ferdinand explains his childhood in the Undersea and his parents, to which the other man listens intently. He also mentions that he and his sister have left Earth because she realized there would be no future there. All men have either died in wars, become negatively affected by radioactivity, or gone off to the planets. Then, the older man explains that there are little to no women on Venus, and he had no idea that women were in charge when he first went to Earth to find a wife. He had been arrested and was charged but decided to become a stowaway instead. The man, who introduces himself as Alberta (Butt) Lee Brown, gives Ferdinand the nickname Ford and talks more about his past. Eventually, he asks more about Evelyn, and Ferdinand does not overthink his intentions when he answers. Later, Evelyn then forces Ferdinand to go to a geography lecture with her, where she continuously asks questions and takes notes. However, she does not write down his answer after he corrects the purser and instead takes him back to the cabin to lecture him. They begin to debate, and Ferdinand begins to use the words and knowledge he learned from Butt. Evelyn is suspicious that somebody has been feeding him rebellious opinions, and she begins to hound him for answers after seeing he has a photo of her in his pocket. He then takes Evelyn to see Butt, and she begins to lecture him about breaking the law. While the both of them debate over Butt’s status as a criminal and stowaway, he suddenly suggests that they should get married. Evelyn is surprised by his proposal, and Ferdinand eagerly urges her to accept it.

<s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Evelyn Sparling is the older sister of Ferdinand Sparling. She is seven years older than him and was born in the Undersea. Her parents were one of the first people to get married in the Undersea, and her mom was an Undersea representative in the World Council. Furthermore, her mom was heavily involved in the Male Desuffrage Act and the Maternal Revolution before being blown up in a surfacing boat alongside her husband. Evelyn herself is proficient in operating sub-surface machinery, believes firmly in the ideals of women leading politics, and is also very focused on affairs that other women do not care much about. She is also skilled at detecting lies, seeing past Ferdinand’s lies that he spoke of to protect Butt’s identity. Moreover, she has a very assertive personality. She did not back down from correcting Ferdinand about the opinions he picked up from Butt, which she classifies as masculinist and anti-socialist. Even if Butt is an intimidating man, her righteousness still shines through when she begins to scold him for escaping Earth on the Eleanor Roosevelt and about how he is also implicating Ferdinand in breaking the law by having the younger boy deliver fruit to him. Despite Evelyn’s forceful nature, she does care for her younger brother and tells him what women appreciate in men.

<s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Alberta Lee Brown, nicknamed Butt, is the man from Venus who Ferdinand meets when he explores the spaceliner. Butt used to have a very large family, and his father immigrated in the eighties after being evacuated from Ontario. His family also consisted of many brothers, also named after Canadian provinces, Unfortunately, all of his brothers except Saskatchewan and him were murdered by the MacGregor boys in an incident known as the Blue Chicago Rising. He is not one to usually act brutally, but he has not hesitated to pull the trigger on people who have wronged him. Butt has great knowledge of his blaster and is capable of explaining everything about it to Ferdinant. Additionally, he tells Ferdinand that he has killed twelve people, excluding the five government personnel, and that he considers his brother as someone who is much more willing to resort to violence. Although he is usually level-headed, Butt is also a very blunt person. He is not afraid to tell Ferdinand what he thinks of Earth, and his actions of breaking the law as a criminal on the run show that he is more than willing to take dangerous risks if he disagrees with something. Butt also tends to act rashly, suggesting to Evelyn that they get married during their first meeting despite never having interacted with her before and only having an impression of her based on what Ferdinand told him earlier.

<s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Women are generally given positions of power and have significant influence over political matters on Earth. Most of the hard labor is left to the men instead of the women. Ferdinand mentions that the crews on the spaceliner ships are always men, as women fulfill the more important tasks of running governments. It is also revealed that only women can become Earth Citizens because of the Male Desuffrage Act, which means that men cannot get an interplanetary passport. In many situations, women have the final say as well. When Butt was arrested on Earth, he could only use a female attorney to communicate his thoughts. Compared to the women, the men on Earth face much more restrictions and must follow what they say at all times. The number of men on Earth has greatly diminished, and the population primarily consists of women. On the other hand, Venus is primarily male-inhabited, and there is a scarcity of women there. Butt says that he is unused to the saying "it's a woman's world" because women do not run Venus, unlike Earth. He also told his attorney that on Venus, a man could speak freely if he wanted to, and a woman's role is to support him. Men can also make a law whenever they wish with their own guns and that they should not wholly be subservient to the rule of women.

<s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story is mainly set on the Eleanor Roosevelt spaceliner. The ship is a luxury liner, and there are purple lights in front of the doors that light up when a girl is inside on her hammock. Ferdinand describes the ship as being very large, consisting of smooth black walls and white doors that seem to go on endlessly. There are multiple numbered decks and steam jets. The engines and machinery are all properly oiled. Multiple portholes line the hulls, and there is the feeling of gravity underfoot. Many emergency-use spacesuits in glass cases also line the crossways. Some of the decks also have signs with glowing red letters that warn passengers not to enter further. The portholes are described to have no knobs, switches, or even a button to press to open them. Inside the portholes, there are also bunks for the lifeboats. Some of the other amenities on the ship include a dining salon, library, and numbered lifeboat sections for passengers to go to if there is an emergency.

<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Evelyn Kane finds herself in pain in the middle of fighting spaceships. She realizes that her nation has lost after 9 years of war and remembers about her task to explode both ships. When she resolves to press the button, it doesn’t work. By deception, she manages to defeat the guards on the ship. Then she gets to the inquisitor and by control of his mind makes him set her free and send her to another zone as a clerk. There a supervisor gets suspicious of her transfer but she convinces him in her honesty. After that she meets Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns, her main aim, and is forced to shoot her own father not to be uncovered. From that moment she becomes a private dancer for Perat by night, and a spy into the officers’ minds by day. One day Perat showed Evelyn a reel of his father, a boy, and a woman very much alike her. This reel was sent by his father with a greeting from Perat’s wife and son, though he was not married. Then the mysterious topic changes and Perat asks Evelyn to accompany him to the execution of the foolish inquisitor. Scared of being recognised by the inquisitor she used a dangerous perfume capable of causing death and entered the room.

<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Evelyn was very close with her father as a child and she has a lot of warm memories of their moments together. Her father was the commander of the Defender, a powerful man, Lord Kane. He wanted to save his daughter by putting her on the last ship leaving the Defender, but she decided to stay and die with her people. This decision impressed her father, and after a brief evaluation he decided to make use of her and give her the most important task - explode both ships. Therefore, their relationship is both caring but professional and with the feeling of duty. While resolving to press the button, Evelyn remembered her father and that helped her decision. After her escape and getting to the Viscount she had to end her relationship with her father by shooting him. Trembling, full of emotions and desire to save him, Evelyn was still able to shoot as she didn't see another positive solution for them both. She felt sad and sorry, but she felt she did the right think and would soon join her father in death.

<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

First, she decided to appear harmless in the struggle and left her weapon in the cubicle. She took only three things in a small bag with her when exiting her spot. Then she detected a corporal and when facing him, stretched luxuriously to change his mind to shoot her or notify his man. That was a manipulation of a woman using her charm not to get killed. When he didn't expect it, she mentally attacked the corporal to death and put on his clothes. This was her Scythian trick. When Evelyn met the inquisitor and the guards, she analyzed their minds again and with a little use of her feminine charm she pretended to be willing to give some interesting information to the inquisitor one on one. That way she got rid of the guards, also by challenging the inquisitor asking to stay one on one if he is not afraid. Then she forced his mind to answer her questions and fill the blanks for her passage to the Occupational Commandant as a clerk and set her free. Then his memory and the guards' about her were deleted by her force of mind. When she reached the supervisor of her transfer, she made up a legend about its reasons as another trick. She complained about the men in the fighting zones and appealed to the supervisor's ego by claiming she had been told he was a better boss. When it came to Perat she followed his orders and even killed her father. She was humble and seductive and gained his trust and attention, which was her feminine trick again. In the very end she used a trick of a dangerous perfume given by her mentors. She used it not to be set up by the inquisitor.

<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

If the device exploded and all went according to the plan, both The Defender and The Invader would be destroyed immediately with all the people on board including Evelyn. Due to a technical break, Evelyn stayed alive and had to think of other ways to destroy the ships. The whole rest of the story is a sequence of events and encounters, accompanied by tricks and cunning, leading to this final aim. She is breaking free, gets trust of her enemies, and even kills her father for this great purpose of destroying their enemies. Every her action is carefully controlled in order to get to Perat and spy on the thoughts of his officers. As she doesn't have anyone left and is surrounded by enemies, she need the purpose to live, which is given by this broken exploder and her following inability to fulfill her task.

<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Evelyn, the main character, is an example of a person following and respecting her duty. As a daughter of the commander she was brought up with a role model during the war time. Her father commanded the ship, defending the whole nation, and she witnessed it for years. It taught her to understand the duty and therefore she refused to leave the ship when she had the opportunity and accepted the important task of exploding both ships and herself as well. No matter how scared she was, she was determined to fulfill the duty placed on her by her father and mentors, and for that reason she pressed the button. When it didn't work, she kept feeling the burden of duty on her and started thinking of other means to destroy the enemies to fulfill the task. Following her duty moved her forward through pain and danger, made her find the ways to achieve it. When she shot her father, she did it because she had to, she knew it was the only right way to reach her aim instead of giving up to emotions.